IRISH      ODES 


AND 


OTHER  POEMS. 


AUBREY      DE      VERE. 


NEW- YORK  : 
THE  CATHOLIC  PUBLICATION  SOCIETY, 

126     NASSA-U     STREET. 

1869. 


JOHN  A.  GRAY  &  GREEN, 
PBINTEES    AND    STKKKOTYPKI 
16  and  18  Jacob  Street,  New-York. 


TO 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW, 

THIS   VOLUME   IS    DEDICATED 

BY 

AUBREY      DE     VERB. 


M178S33 


PREFACE. 


WISH  has  sometimes  been  expressed 
by  my  American  friends  that  an  edition 
of  my  poems  should  be  published  in 
their  country.  No  one  who  has  written  in  the 
English  language,  whether  with  the  lower  or  the 
higher  aims  of  literature,  can  fail  to  desire  that  his 
works  should  have  a  circulation  in  America.  That 
country  must  ere  long  contain  far  the  larger  num 
ber  of  those  who  speak  English ;  in  it,  despite 
those  material  interests  which  imperiously  demand 
the  attention  of  a  young  country,  poetry  has 
already  been  produced  with  an  abundance,  and 
read  with  an  eagerness,  rare  in  the  old  world ;  and 
it  cannot  be  doubted  that  every  liberal  art  must 
achieve  new  triumphs  amid  a  race  dowered  with 
all  that  can  develop  moral  and  social  energies, 
and  naught  that  can  depress  intellect  or  divide 


VI  PREFA  CE. 

brethren.  The  Liberal  Arts  are  the  children  of  a 
virtuous,  unboastful  Liberty,  frank-hearted,  and  not 
self-respecting  alone,  but  full  of  respect  for  all  that 
is  human.  Their  larger  growths  are  quickened 
from  the  soil  of  sympathies  wide  as  the  earth,  and 
are  freshened  by  aspirations  not  restrained  to  the 
earth.  Like  the  spontaneous  growths  of  Nature, 
they  are  also  in  part,  it  is  true,  Traditions ;  but 
the  allegation  that  America  must  wait  long  for  a 
past,  is  an  error.  She  has  only  to  remember,  as 
well  as  look  forward,  and  the  Past  of  all  those 
nations  from  which  her  race  is  derived  is  her  Past 
also. 

For  me  the  question  is  not  merely  one  of  Litera 
ture.  There  now  exist  in  America  more  of  my 
Irish  fellow-countrymen  than  remain  in  their  native 
country;  and  I  cannot  but  wish  that  my  Poetry, 
much  of  which  illustrates  their  History  and  Re 
ligion,  should  reach  those  Irish  "of  the  dispersion" 
in  that  land  which  has  extended  to  them  its  hospi 
tality.  Whoever  loves  that  people  must  follow 
it  in  its  wanderings  with  an  earnest  desire  that, 
upon  whatever  shore  the  storms  may  have  cast  it, 
and  by  whatever  institutions  it  may  be  cherished 
or  proved,  it  may  retain  with  vigilant  fidelity,  and 


PREFACE,  VI  i 

be  valued  for  retaining,  those  among  its  characteris 
tics  which  most  belong  to  the  Ireland  of  History 
and  Religion.  The  Irish  character  is  one  easily 
mistaken  by  the  "  rough  and  ready"  philosophy  of 
the  caricaturist.  "  A  little  part,  and  that  the  worst, 
he  sees."  To  the  rest  he  has  not  the  key.  Broad 
farce,  and  broad  romance,  have  familiarized  men 
with  its  coarser  traits.  Its  finer  reveal  themselves 
to  poetry.  She  deals  with  what  lies  beneath  the 
surface.  She  makes  her  study,  not  of  the  tavern, 
but  of  the  hill-side  chapel,  and  of  the  cottage-hearth 
without  stain  and  faithful  to  the  departed.  She 
ponders  the  tear-blotted  letter,  and  the  lip-worn 
rosary.  In  a  face  seldom  joyless,  but  not  seldom 
overcast,  she  finds  something  which  makes  her 
tread  the  wanderer's  native  land,  and  share  with 
him  the  recollections  of  the  Past.  Those  recol 
lections,  dear  to  all  deep-hearted  Races,  but  dearest 
to  the  saddest,  have  to  the  Irish  been  a  reality  in 
times  when  the  present  seemed  a  dream.  But 
hitherto  they  have  also  been  vindictive.  Now  that 
a  Sectarian  Ascendency  is  on  the  point  of  ceasing, 
they  will  lose  their  bitterness  wherever  the  old  and 
true  Irish  character  remains.  That  character  is 
generous  where  love  is  not  curdled  into  hate  by 


Vlll  PREFA  CE. 

wrong.  To  attain  Civil  Freedom  and  Religious 
Equality  was  long  the  task  which  nature  and  duty 
imposed  upon  Ireland.  To  develop,  and  rightly 
to  direct  the  energies,  moral,  intellectual,  and  in 
dustrial,  of  a  People  set  free,  must  ere  long  become 
the  task  of  a  thoughtful  patriotism.  .  These  con 
victions  will  be  traced  in  the  poems  which  give  the 
present  volume  its  name,  and  occupy  its  earlier 
portion — poems  written  at  various  periods,  but,  like 
those  in  the  latter  part  of  the  volume,  not  included 
in  the  writer's  previous  publications.  The  inter 
mediate  poems  are  a  selection  from  his  works. 

It  is  sometimes  said  that  the  poetry  of  a  Catho 
lic,  even  when  its  subjects  are,  as  in  the  present 
instance,  mainly  secular,  should  not  expect  an  im 
partial  audience  in  a  country  predominantly  Pro 
testant.  The  remark  can  hardly  be  one  of  univer 
sal  application.  Religious  jealousies,  now  in  most 
countries  happily  on  the  wane,  are  not  produced 
by  diversities  of  Faith;  they  are  but  social  passions 
or  panics — an  after-swell  bequeathed  by  the  politi 
cal  tempests  of  past  times.  America,  since  she 
became  a  nation,  has  never  persecuted,  and  there 
fore  can  afford  to  be  just.  Let  it  be  for  her  to 
teach  the  world  that  true  liberty — the  liberty  which 


PREFACE.  IX 

accords  all  that  it  demands — has  no  better  friend 
than  true  Catholicity.  The  age  is  one  of  progress ; 
Catholicity  has  much  that  is  in  direct  harmony 
with  its  furthest  and  hardiest  aspirations,  and  as 
much  that  is  indirectly  supplemental  to  them.  It 
fears  no  progress  that  is  not  downward.  It  loves 
the  people ;  it  sojourned  with  them  in  the  Cata 
combs  ;  it  delivered  them  from  Pagan  Imperialism, 
protected  them  from  the  Mahometan  yoke,  and 
struck  from  them  the  chains  of  Feudal  serfdom. 
It  rejoices  in  the  expansion  of  their  justly-regulated 
rights  and  powers,  in  which,  as  in  a  dilated  breast, 
its  free  spirit  respires  with  ease.  But  it  also  hal 
lows  Authority.  It  asserts  Equality,  not  in  the  form 
of  a  surly  and  barren  independence,  but  in  that  of 
a  reciprocal  dependence  fruitful  in  mutual  good. 
It  emancipates  us  first  from  lawless  passions,  and 
next  from  those  lawless  tyrannies  which  are  at 
once  their  offspring  and  their  punishment ;  but  it 
works  these  marvellous  works  only  because  it  pays 
>ar:d  demands  an  allegiance  based  neither  on  a 
servile  nor  a  selfish  motive,  and  therefore  unag- 
grieved  and  unashamed.  It  generates  a  reveren 
tial  good-will  which,  as  by  an  inner  law,  subdues 
the  aggressions  of  selfishness,  and  gives  to  each 


X  PREFA  CE. 

man  a  protector  in  his  neighbor ;  but  it  at  the  same 
time  takes  from  external  laws  its  sting  by  creating 
the  virtue  of  a  proud  and  generous  loyalty.  That 
loyalty  looks  on  the  State  not  as  a  mere  aggregate, 
the  administrator  of  Society's  material  interests, 
but  as  the  sacred  unity  of  a  nation,  the  majestic 
inheritor  of  its  duties,  the  vindicator  of  a  Divine 
Justice — nay,  as,  in  its  vastness  and  its  perma 
nence,  a  shadow  of  the  Universal  Church.  Yet  it 
remembers  that  to  a  loyal  People  the  loyalty  of  the 
State  is  also  due.  We  are  made  up  of  habits. 
Man  requires  both  obedience  and  liberty :  and  it 
is  where  the  priceless  freedom  of  the  heart  is  sus 
tained  by  a  willing  and  reasonable  obedience  in 
the  spiritual  sphere,  that  liberty,  civil  and  social, 
can  walk  securely  while  steadied  by  the  lightest 
yoke.  In  the  Church  History  of  1800  years  there 
needs  little  ingenuity  to  find  some  matter  for 
reproach,  and  much  for  cavil.  That  period,  how 
ever,  during  which  the  most  devoted  asserters  of 
liberty  have  learned  to  confess  that  the  Church 
was  its  surest  friend,  exceeds  threefold  the  time 
during  which  they  maintain  that  she  acted  but  as 
a  drag  upon  the  wheels  of  progress.  The  road  of 
Progress  is  a  long  road,  and  if  on  parts  of  it  there 


PREFA  CE.  XI 

had  been  no  drag,  perhaps  no  wheels  would  have 
remained  for  that  portion  which  lies  open  before 
the  Intelligence  of  the  Future. 

We  are  sometimes  told  that,  in  our  day,  Poetry 
which  does  not  affect  the  "  sensational"  must  not 
hope  to  be  popular.  The  "  sensational"  includes 
several  schools,  the  worst  of  which  is  that  one 
which  is  sensual  as  well  as  sensational.  The  fa 
natics  of  this  school  declaim  about  Passion ;  but 
they  mean  by  the  word  little  more  than  Appetite 
intellectualized.  Far  other  was  the  meaning  of 
Milton,  when  he  described  Poetry  as  a  thing 
"simple,  sensuous,  and  impassioned /"  for  it  was 
he  who  characterized  specially  the  stately  and 
severe  Greek  Tragedy,  as  "  high  actions,  and  high 
passions  best  describing."  Neither  did  he  use  th,e 
word  "  sensuous"  in  opposition  to  that  lofty  doc 
trine  of  Bacon,  who  affirms  that  Poetry  "sub 
jects  the  shews  of  things  to  the  desires  of  the 
mind"  Milton  but  intended  thus  to  contrast 
Poetry  with  Science,  which  last  has  been  well  said 
to  draw  up  the  exterior  universe  into  that  of 
Thought  and  Law,  whereas  it  is  the  office  of  Poetry 
to  embody  the  interior  world  of  Thought  in  pal 
pable  form.  The  great  master  of  Inductive  Phi- 


PREFA  CE. 

losophy  was,  in  this  matter,  Idealist  ;  while  the 
great  Idealist  confessed,  perhaps  against  the  tenor 
of  his  habitual  sympathies,  the  objective  character 
of  Poetry  ;  but  these  two  authentic  canons  of  criti 
cism  set  forth  but  the  same  philosophy  as  re 
garded  from  two  opposite  points  of  view,  the  one 
insisting  that  the  soul  of  Poetry  is  Thought,  the 
other  adding  that  for  that-  soul  a  body  exists  also. 
Let  not  the  Sensationalists  of  this  school  ima 
gine  that  Passion  is  their  characteristic.  It  be 
longs  to  their  narrow  domain  neither  exclusively 
nor  inclusively.  True  Passion  finds  its  sustenance 
everywhere  —  in  every  joy  and  woe  of  humanity  — 
in  the  faith  and  patience  of  oppressed  nations,  and 
the  cry  from  the  lonely  hearth  —  in  the 

"sanguine  flower  inscribed  with  woe,"* 

and  in  the  yew-grove, 

if  for  festal  purpose  decked 


as 


with  unrej  oicing  berries,  "t 

False  Passion,  in  its  ultimate  development, 
loathes  all  food  but  carrion,  and  destroys  all  that 
a  sane  heart  reveres.  It  ignores  the  affections 

*  Milton.  t  Wordsworth. 


PREFA  CE.  Xlll 

and  values  the  passions  themselves  but  for  the 
mud  turned  up  by  the  storm.  Its  wit  is  malicious 
ness,  and  its  humor  but  the  pretext  for  license.  It 
blots  even  from  material  nature  her  beauty  ;  for  it 
abolishes,  in  its  gross  delineations,  all  her  variety 
and  harmony  of  expression,  as  well  as  all  that 
gradation  which  metes  and  measures  human  en 
joyment.  Resolving  all  things  into  the  senses, 
it  stultifies  the  senses  themselves,  which  for  man 
have  no  true  existence  except  in  so  far  as  they 
receive  and  give  forth  subordinately  to  man's 
higher  Powers.  It  overruns  whatever  is  fresh,  and 
tramples  down  whatever  is  sweet.  It  rushes  over 
God's  world  like  a  conflagration,  licking  up  those 
innumerable  half  lights  and  half  shades,  pre 
cious  alike  in  their  reserve  and  their  disclosures, 
through  which  the  beauty  of  nature  is  rendered 
infinite,  and  her  bounty  inexhaustible.  It  leaves 
behind  it  nothing  but  blackness  and  barrenness. 
It  may  content  itself  with  the  suggestive,  and  con 
ceal  beneath  the  whitened  outside  of  decorous  lan 
guage  the  implication  that  dares  not  be  named ; 
or  it  may  boast  that  it  is  natural,  because  it  has 
renounced  faith  in  the  primary  instincts  of  the 
moral  nature,  that  it  may  celebrate  animal  in- 


XIV  PREFACE. 

stincts  in  language  that  knows  itself  to  be  naked, 
and  is  not  ashamed;  or  it  may  endeavor  to  gal 
vanize  dead  Art  with  the  spasmodic  tricks  of  spu 
rious  Science,  exhibiting  the  malformations  of  de 
praved  fancy,  or  of  nature  disnatured,  in  psy 
chological  poems  and  philosophic  "  Etudes,"  re 
volting  as  those  anatomical  eccentricities  ranged 
round  the  walls  of  a  museum  : — to  such  achieve 
ments  it  may  rise  ;  but  it  has  forfeited  all  heritage 
in  the  two  great  homes  of  authentic  poetry — man's 
heart  and  the  universe  of  God.  The  sensual- 
sensational  cannot  plead  the  excuse  of  a  tender 
weakness.  It  is  essentially  the  heartless.  In  it 
the  pathetic  has  no  part.  To  feel  anything  it 
must  have  nails  driven  into  it.  In  it  love  has  no 
part ;  for  it  has  broken  loose  from  that  Reverence 
which  is  itself  but  Love  shrouded  beneath  her 
sacred  and  protecting  veil,  and  from  that  moral 
sense  from  which,  and  not  from  the  animal  nature 
or  a  blind  caprice,  the  genuine  human  affections 
are  outgrowths.  In  it  the  imagination  has  no  part 
— that  large  and  free  imagination  which  aspires  to 
breathe  the  spiritual  into  the  material,  not  to 
merge  the  former  in  the  latter.  In  her  forest- 


PREFACE.  XV 

pleasaunce  there  remains  not  a  tree  that  is  not 
branded  nor  a  spring  that  is  not  brackish. 

Literary  heresies,  like  religions,  attract  at  first 
through  their  supposed  originality.  "  Sensational 
ism"  in  this  form — for  I  do  not  speak  of  those 
which  offend  only  against  refinement — fancies 
that  it  has  discovered  a  new  sort  of  "  muscular" 
literature.  It  is  new  in  nothing  but  the  circum 
stances  which  aggravate  the  offence.  The  better 
time  of  Paganism  itself  was  a  reproach  to  the 
worst  times  of  countries  nominally  Christian  ;  and 
it  was  only  when  the  higher  genius  of  the  ancient 
world  had  been  blighted  by  bad  morals  and  des 
potic  Governments,  that  sensuality  usurped  upon 
its  literature.  Cast  down  from  its  Pagan  throne, 
and  remanded  to  the  reptile  form,  it  worked  up 
again  even  in  the  ages  of  Faith,  creeping  back 
into  the  precinct  made  pure,  and  blending,  in  a 
half  merry,  half  mystical  libertinage,  the  higher 
thoughts  of  a  chivalrous  time  with  the  renewed 
revolt  of  fallen  nature.  To  what  extent  the  cor 
rupt  element  in  the  Fabliaux,  Tales,  and  Trouba 
dour  songs  of  the  Middle  Ages  defrauded  the  world 
of  that  complete  Mediaeval  literature  of  which  the 
"  Vita  Nuova"  was  the  snowy  bud?  and  the  "  Divi- 


XVI  PREFA  CE. 

na  Commedia"  the  half-opened  flower,  we  shall 
probably  never  know;  but  what  Dante  did  the 
writers  of  the  "  Novelle  "  undid,  and  in  Chaucer's 
poetry  a  dark  stream  ran  side  by  side  with  the 
clear  one.  For  a  long  time  a  childlike  Faith 
made  head  against  a  childish  instability  ahd  in 
consistency  as  to  right  and  wrong ;  but  by  degrees 
the  loftier  element  evaporated,  while  the  coarser 
residuum  remained  behind.  In  ages  of  less  sim 
plicity  the  same  evil  has  again  and  again  recurred, 
marring  the  heroic  strength  of  Elizabethan  drama, 
scattering  plague-spots  over  the  dreary  revel  of 
Charles  the  Second,  and  in  France  pushing  aside 
the  Bossuets  and  Racines,  and  sealing  a  large  part 
of  literature,  by  its  own  confession,  against  the 
young  and  the  innocent — that  is,  against  those 
who,  owing  to  their  leisure,  their  vivid  perceptions, 
quick  sympathies,  and  unblunted  sensibilities,  can 
best  appreciate  what  is  beautiful,  best  profit  by 
what  is  ennobling,  and  best  reward,  by  innocence 
confirmed  and  noble  enjoyments  extended,  the 
poet  who  has  ever  regarded  them  as  his  glory  and 
his  crown. 

I  have  spoken,  perhaps,  at  too  great  length  of  an 
evil  which  is  yet  but  in  an  early  stage  amongst  us. 


PREFA  CE,  XVU 

But  that  evil  is  one  which  tends  to  advance.  A 
busy  age  will  need  daily  a  noisier  challenge  ;  and 
a  luxurious  age,  weary  of  honest  pleasures,  will 
crave  stronger  stimulants.  Nor  may  a  friendly 
appeal  be  without  value  to  some  of  our  younger 
writers,  whose  genius  is  capable  of  better  things 
than  they  suspect,  and  who  are  tempted  to  err  into 
by-paths,  not  by  any  natural  preference  for  them, 
but  by  paradox  and  precipitancy,  by  vanity,  or  by 
a  despair  of  coping  with  the  classic  masters  on  the 
broad  highways  of  literature.  The  true  aspirant 
can  never  have  cause  for  despair.  Fail  who  may, 
Poetry  will  never  lack  fit  men  through  whom  to 
send  her  message  to  man.  The  false  prophets 
may  prophesy  deceits ;  but  the  true  prophets  will 
not  cease  to  declare  the  vision  or  denounce  the 
burthen.  This  volume  records  the  name  of  seve 
ral  who  in  recent  times  have  been  true  to  their 
vocation ;  fortunate  if  thus,  at  least,  it  may  help 
to  attract  some  hearts  to  that  true  kingdom  of 
poetry  of  which  such  writers  are  the  representa 
tives,  and  thus  to  make  atonement  in  some  mea 
sure  for  its  own  defects. 


CONTENTS. 


Ode  I.— The  Music  of  the  Future, 13 

Sonnet. — Sarsfield  and  Clare, 17 

To  the  Count  De  Montalembert,  with  a  copy  of  "  Inisfail,"  .  .  17 

Ode  II.— Christ  Church  Cathedral,  Dublin, 18 

Stanzas, 22 

Ode  III.— Industry, 23 

Sonnet. — The  Irish  Constitution  of  1782, 26 

Ode  IV.— Ireland's  Church  Right  and  Ulster's  "  Tenant  Right ;" 

or,  The  Irish  Catholic  to  the  Protestant  of  the  North,  .  .  27 

Sonnet. — Christian  Education, 30 

Ode  V.— The  Building  of  a  Cottage, .31 

Ode  VI.— The  Foundation  of  the  Catholic  University,  ...  35 
Sonnet. — Written  in  Cumberland,  September,  1860,  ....  39 

Ode  VII.— After  one  of  the  Famine  Years, 4° 

Sonnet. — True  and  False  Love  of  Freedom, 45 

Sonnet,  ' 45 

Ode  VIII.— The  Desolation  of  the  West, 46 

Ode  IX.— Against  False  Freedom,  .  .  .  .  -50 

Sonnet.— The  Ecclesiastical  Titles'  Act, 53 

Ode  X.— An  Irish  "  God  Save  the  Queen,"  .  .  .  .  -54 
Prologue  to  Cardinal  Wiseman's  "  Hidden  Gem,"  .  .  •  56 

To  Burns's  "  Highland  Mary,"  .  .  •  .  •  .  .  .  .  .  59 
Sonnet. — To  Charles  Eliot  Norton,  on  reading  his  "Vita  Nuova"  of 

Dante, .  65 

Sonnet, •  .  • 65 

Sonnet, .  .  .  .  .  .  .65 

Sonnet, 67 

Sonnet,  -  • 67 

A  Farewell  to  Naples,  .  .  .  •  .  •  .  .  .  •  ••  .68 
Psyche ;  or,  An  Old  Poet's  Love,  •  .  .  .  .  .  -  •  71 
Ode. — The  Ascent  of  the  Apennines,  .  .  .  .  .  «-  '.  .So 


XX  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Glauce, 87 

lone 89 

Lycius, 91 

Lines  written  under  Delphi,        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .94 

The  Dignity  of  Sorrow, 107 

Song, •    v  ...     109 

A  Wanderer's  Musings  at  Rome,         .        .        .        .        .        .        .110 

Song, .        .    123 

Persecution, .        .        .        .124 

Lines  written  beside  the  Lago  Varese, 125 

Lines  written  near  Shelley's  House  at  Lerici 129 

Sonnets. — Irish  Colonization,        .         .        .        .        •        •         •         -136 

The  Year  of  Sorrow — Ireland — 1849, *39 

Widowhood, *49 

The  Irish  Gael  to  the  Irish  Norman  ;  or,  The  Last  Irish  Confiscation,  152 

Ireland.     1851, .     159 

The  Sisters  ;  or,  Weal  in  Woe,    . l6° 

i_  Ode  to  the  Daffodil,      .         .         ...        .        .        .    •    .  "      .     *97 

A  Tale  of  the  Modern  Time,       .        .        ...        .        •        .        •     20° 

Song, 2l6 

Sonnet 217 

The  Fall  of  Rora -       .        .     218 

Sonnets. — "  Le  Recit  d'une  Sceur," 239 

Alexandrine,         .         .         . 24° 

A  Happy  Death,      ,.'...        ....        •        .240 

National  Apostacy,      .        ....        »,.'.-••        •        .241 

Winter  in  the  Woods,          .  ......     242 

St.  Cuthbert,        .         . 242 

Monasticism,        ......•••     243 

Poland  and  Russia, •         •     244 

Galatea  and  Urania ;  or,  Art  and  Faith,     ....     245 

Death,  .  246 

Kirkstall  Abbey,          .        .  ....        ..        .246 

Unspiritual  Civilization, 247 

On  a  Recent  Volume  of  Poems, 248 

Penitence,    .         .         ...    t    ......    ^    •         •     24$ 

Boccaccio  and  Certaldo,      .        .  •        •  •     249 

A  Night  on  the  Genoese  Riviera, 250 

Written  on  a  spot  by  the  Rotha,  near  Ambleside,      .        .     250 
Common  Life,      .         .         ......        •        •         •     25* 

Modern  Despondency,         .        .                .        -        •        •     252 
Industry, .252 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Sonnets. — To  Coleridge,      .........     253 

Pontefract  Castle,        .        ,        .        •        .        .        .        .     254 

To  the  Most  Fair,       .        .        .        .        .        r       .        .254 

From  Petrarch,    .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .     255 

From  Petrarch,    .        .        .        .  •     .        .        „        .        .     256 

A  Warning,          .  ....        .        .        .        .256 

Principle  a  Power  ;  or,  Logic  in  History,  ....     257 

Composed  at  Rydal, • 

To  Wordsworth,          .        .        .        .        .        .        . 

The  World's  Work, 261 

The  Church's  Work,    .        .     '.        .        .        .        .        .        .        .262 

A  Girl's  Song,       .         .        ...        ...        .        . "      .         .263 

A  Song  of  Age, '    .  264 

Stanzas, 25$ 

Lines, .......     266 

Sad  Music, 267 

Lines, •.'."..    268 

March  Omens, 269 

February, 270 

With  a  Book  of  Verse,         .        .       .        .        .        .        .        .        .271 

Appearances, 272 

Death, 273 

St.  Columkiirs  Farewell  to  the  Isle,  of  Arran,  on  setting  sail  for  lona,  274 

Charity, 276 

On  Visiting  a  Haunt  of  Coleridge's, 277 

'r~  Autumnal  Ode, 282 

*    Urbs  Roma.— St.  Peter's  by  Moonlight,      .        .        .       %.        .        .293 
Pontific  Mass  in  the  Sistine  Chapel,     ....     293 

The  Pillar  of  Trajan, 294 

The  Arch  of  Titus,      ' X.        .294 

The  Campagna  seen  from  St.  John  Lateran,  .  .  3^5 
Birds  in  the  Baths  of  Diocletian,  .  '  .  .  .296 
The  "  Miserere"  in  the  Sistine  Chapel,  I.,  II.,  .  296,  297 
A  Roman  Legend — Valerian  and  Cecilia,  .  .  .  297 
Rome  at  Noon,  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  ^g 

Christmas  Eve,  1860, 279 

The  Catacombs, .        .259 

The  Appian  Way, 300 

On  the  Cross  in  the  Interior  of  the  Coliseum,  .  '  .  300 
The  Fountain  of  Egeria,  .  .  .  .  .  30I 

The  Monastery  of  San  Gregorio  on  the  Ccelian  Hill,      302 


XXli  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Urbs  Roma. — The  Graves  of  Tyrconnel  and  Tyrone  on  San  Pietro, 

in  Montorio, 3°2 

Sonnet— The  Franciscan  Convent  of   the  Ara  Cceli 

on  the  Capitol,        . 303 

The  Convent  of  St.  Buenaventura,      ....     304 

Santa  Maria  Maggiore, 304 

The  Interior  of  St.  Peter's, 3°S 

The  Monument  of  St.  Leo  the  Great,  .        .        .        .306 
The  Monuments  of  Queen  Christina  of  Sweden  and 

the  Countess  Matilda, 306 

Sir  Walter  Scott  at  the  Tomb  of  the  Stuarts,       .        .     307 
St.  Peter,  I.,  II., 308,  309 


POEMS. 


ODE  I. 

THE    MUSIC   OF   THE   FUTURE. 


HARK,  hark  that  chime  !     The  frosts  are  o'er  ! 

With  song  the  birds  force  on  the  spring: 
Thus,  Ireland,  sang  thy  bards  of  yore  : — 

O  younger  bards,  'tis  time  to  sing  ! 
Your  Country's  smile  that  with  the  past 

Lay  dead  so  long — that  vanished  smile — 
Evoke  it  from  the  dark,  and  cast 

Its  light  around  a  tearful  isle  ! 


ii. 


Like  severed  locks  that  keep  their  light 
When  all  the  stately  frame  is  dust, 

A  Nation's  songs  preserve  from  blight 
A  Nation's  name,  their  sacred  trust. 


1 4  THE  MUSIC  OF   THE   FUTURE. 

Temple  and  pyramid  eterne 

May  memorize  her  deeds  of  power  ; 

But  only  from  the  songs  we  learn 

How  throbbed  her  life-blood,  hour  oy  hour. 

in. 

Thrice  blest  the  strain  that  brings  to  one 

Who  weeps,  by  some  Australian  rill, 
A  worn  out  life  far  off  begun, 

His  Country's  countenance  beauteous  still  ! 
That  'mid  Canadian  wilds,  or  where 

Rich-feathered  birds  are  void  of  song, 
Wafts  back,  'mid  gusts  of  Irish  air, 

Old  wood-notes  loved  and  lost  so  long  ! 

IV. 

Well  might  the  Muse  at  times  forsake 

Her  Grecian  hill,  and  sit  where  swerve 
In  lines  like  those  of  Hebe's  neck, 

That  wood-girt  bay,  yon  meadow's  curve,* 
Watching  the  primrose  clusters  throw 

Their  wan  light  o'er  that  ivied  cave, 
And  airs  by  myrtles  odored  blow 

The  apple  blossom  on  the  wave  ! 


Thrice  blest  the  strain  that,  when  the  May 
Woos  thus  the  young  leaf  from  the  bud, 

When  robins,  thrushlike,  shake  the  spray, 
And  deepening  purples  tinge  the  flood, 

*  Foynes  Island. 


THE   MUSIC  OF   THE  FUTURE. 

Kindles  new  worlds  of  love  and  truth, 
This  world's  lost  Eden,  still  new-born, 

In  breast  of  Irish  maid  or  youth, 
Reading  beneath  the  Irish  thorn  : 

VI. 

That  lures  from  over-heated  strife 

Blinded  ambition's  tool ;   that  o'er 
The  fields  of  unsabbatic  life 

The  church-bells  of  the  past  can  pour ; 
Around  the  old  oak  lightning-scarred 

Can  raise  the  virgin  woods  that  rang 
When,  throned  'mid  listening  kerns,  the  bard 

Of  Oisin  and  of  Patrick  sang. 

VII. 

Saturnian  years  return  !     Ere  long 

Peace,  justice-built,  the  Isle  shall  cheer : 
Even  now  old  sounds  of  ancient  wrong 

At  distance  roll,  and  come  not  near : 
Past  is  the  iron  age — the  storms 

That  lashed  the  worn  cliff,  shock  on  shock 
The  bird  in  tempest  cradled  warms 

At  last  her  wings  upon  the  rock. 

in. 

How  many  a  bard  may  lurk  even  now, 

Ireland,  among  thy  noble  poor  ! 
To  Truth  their  genius  let  them  vow, 

And  scorn  the  Syren's  tinsel  lure  ; 


1 6  THE  MUSIC  OF   THE  FUTURE. 

Faithful  to  illustrate  God's  word 
On  Nature  writ ;    or  re-revealing, 

Through  Nature,  Christian  lore  transferred 
From  faith  to  sight  by  songs  heart-healing. 

IX. 

Fair  land  !    the  skill  was  thine  of  old 
Upon  the  illumined  scroll  to  trace 

In  heavenly  blazon,  blue  or  gold, 
The  martyr's  palm,  the  angel's  face  : 

One  day  on  every  Muse's  page 
.Be  thine  a  saintly  light  to  fling, 

And  bathe  the  world's  declining  age 
Once  more  in  its  baptismal  spring  ! 

x. 

Man  sows  :    a  Hand  Divine  must  reap  : 

The  toil  wins  most  that  wins  not  praise  : 
Stones  buried  in  oblivion's  deep 

May  help  the  destined  pile  to  raise, 
Foundations  fix  for  pier  or  arch  ; 

Above  that  spirit-bridge's  span 
To  Faith's  inviolate  home  may  march, 

In  God's  good  time,  enfranchised  man. 


TO    THE    COUNT  DE  MONTALEMBERT.  I? 

SONNET. 

SARSFIELD    AND     CLARE. 

SILENT  they  slumber  in  the  unwholesome  shade  : 
And  why  lament  them  ?     Virtue,  too,  can  die  : 
Old  wisdom  labors  in  extremity  ; 
And  greatness  stands  aghast,  and  cries  for  aid 
Full  often  :  aye,  and  honor  grows  dismayed  ; 
And  all  those  eagle  hopes,  so  pure  and  high, 
Which  soar  aloft  in  youth's  unclouded  sky, 
Drop  dustward,  self-subverted,  self-betrayed. 
Call  it  not  joy  to  walk  the  immortal  floor 
Of  this  exulting  earth,  nor  peace  to  lie 
Where  the  thronged  marbles  awe  the  passer  by  : 
True  rest  is  this  ;  the  task,  the  mission  o'er, 
To  bide  God's  time,  and  man's  neglect  to  bear — 
Hail,  loyal  Sarsfield  !    Hail,  high-hearted  Clare  ! 

TO     THE     COUNT    DE     MONTALEMBERT 

WITH    A    COPY    OF    "  INISFAIL." 

YOUR  spirit  walks  in  halls  of  light  : 

On  earth  you  breathe  its  sunnier  climes  : 

How  can  an  Irish  muse  invite 
Your  fancy  thus  to  sorrowing  rhymes  ? 

But  you  have  fought  the  Church's  fight ! 

My  Country's  Cause  and  hers  are  one  : 
And  every  Cause  that  rests  on  Right 

Invokes  Religion's  bravest  son. 


1 8          CHRIST  CHURCH  CATHEDRAL,   DUBLIN. 

ODE    II. 
CHRIST   CHURCH    CATHEDRAL,    DUBLIN. 


Ho  !   ye  that  pace  this  way  and  that 

In  all  your  Sunday  bravery, 
That  ask  "  What  news  ?"    that  laugh  and  chat 

Of  Emperor,  Pope,  and  slavery, 
How  name  you  yon  cathedral  hoar? 

Who  built  it?     Who  endowed  it? 
Why  kneel  the  natives  there  no  more 

While  grooms  and  courtiers  crowd  it  ? 

n. 

One  portion  of  its  sacred  trust 

That  pile  has  ne'er  discarded  : 
There  Strongbow  slumbers— tomb  and  dust 

By  well-fed  vergers  guarded  : 
But  those  who  clasp  the  faith  they  held, 

The  invaders  and  the  invaded, 
Far  off  they  kneel,  a  horde  expelled, 

An  alien  tribe  degraded. 

in. 

From  roof  to  roof  the  wind  may  run, 
And  shake  the  weeds  close-shaven  : 

The  javelin  of  the  setting  sun 
May  glance  from  tower  to  raven  ; 


CHRIST  CHURCH  CATHEDRAL,   DUBLIN. 

They  draw  not  nigh  whose  sires  of  old 
Upraised  yon  frowning  steeple, 

God's,  chimes  who  rolled  at  midnight  cold 
Above  a  kneeling  people  ! 

IV. 

A  time  there  was  when  sheaf  and  blade, 

From  ocean  on  to  ocean 
Confessed  their  Faith  and  tribute  paid 

To  ennoble  their  devotion  : 
Now  on  the  wintry  hills,  scarce  fed, 

The  Church's  flocks  are  driven 
From  Achill's  Isle  to  Brandon's  Head, 

Half  shepherded,  half  shriven  ! 


The  Church  ancestral  sat  in  rags, 

A  thorny  garland  wearing  : 
The  sons  of  Ireland's  wastes  and  crags 

For  laws  of  man  naught  caring 
Confessed,  plain-voiced,  whoe'er  held  sway, 

King,  Parliament,   Protector, 
Their  Faith — that  Faith  which  mounts  to-day, 

Above  your  Law- Church  victor. 

VI. 

Law  turned,  to  prop  that  Church,  a  wheel 

Of  omnipresent  torture 
With  swifter,  subtler,  steadier  zeal 

Than  lawless  rage  could  nurture  : 


20          CHRIST  CHURCH   CATHEDRAL,   DUBLIN. 

Keen  scriveners — merchants,  slow  but  fell — 
Half  buccaneers,  half  hedgers — 

Old  Shylock's  knife  they  whetted  well 
Upon  their  dusty  ledgers.* 


VII. 

Law  banned  the  Book,  the  Trade,  the  Farm, 

To  prop  your  State-Church  fiction  : 
Law  stretched  o'er  shipless  seas  an  arm 

Of  iron-bound  restriction  : 
Law  bribed  the  serf  to  hunt  his  Priest  ; 

Loosed  wife  and  child  from  duty  ; 
But  the  People  were  true  :  — that  Church  possessed 

Not  them,  but  theirs,  for  booty. 

VIII. 

Statesmen,  that  oft — old  thrones  o'erturned — 

Of  wrongs  remote  have  ranted, 
Has  Pole,  has  Lombard  ever  mourned 

Or  Faith  or  Church  supplanted  ? 
Take  breath,  avengers  !     Nearer  claims 

Invoke  your  earlier  favor  ; 
The  Tiber  cleanse  not  till  the  Thames 

Sends  up  a  healthier  savor  ! 


*  The  war  of  chicane  succeeded  to  that  of  arms  and  of  hostile  statutes  ; 
and  a  regular  series  of  operations  was  carried  on,  particularly  from  Chi- 
chester's  time,  in  the  ordinary  courts  of  justice,  and  by  special  commissions 
and  inquisitions,  first,  under  pretence  of  tenures,  and  then  of  titles  in  the 
crown,  for  the  purpose  of  the  total  extirpation  of  the  interest  of  the  natives 
in  their  own  soil. — Burke,  vol.  vi.  p.  336. 


CHRIST  CHURCH  CATHEDRAL,   DUBLIN,          21 
IX. 

What  voice  is  murmuring  at  mine  ear, 

"  We  would,  but  are  not  able  : 
"  Right  sides  with  Interest ; — yet  we  fear 

The  zealot  and  the  rabble." 
Statesmen  !    Church-heat  is  seldom  meet 

For  undogmatic  laymen  ; 
Go,  treat  us  Papists  as  you  treat 

Your  Budhist  and  your  Brahmin! 

x. 

How  soon  shall  Freedom  spurn  the  weight 

Of  centuries  dead  and  gory  ? 
How  long  the  eighth  Henry  maculate 

Victoria's  grace  and  glory  ? 
Against  our  honor  and  the  Queen's 

We  deem  this  mockery  : — end  it ! 
Disloyal  is  the  pen  that  screens, 

The  bayonets  that  defend  it ! 

XI. 

Statesmen,  look  up  !     'Tis  Truth  makes  bold  ! 

Three  centuries  burst  their  prison  ; 
From  the  sealed  Tomb  the  stone  is  rolled  : 

The  Truth  that  slept  hath  risen. 
Self  caught  in  knots  of  serpent  wiles 

Low  lies  the  Equivocation  ; 
And,  o'er  the  ruin  rising,  smiles 

A  liberated  Nation  ! 


22  STANZAS. 


SCOTLAND  reveres  her  "great  Montrose, 
Scotland  bewails  her  brave  Dundee  ! 

With  Alfred's  memory  England  glows  : — 
What  lethal  hemlock  freezes  thee, 

My  country,  that  thy  trophies  rise 
To  noteless  men,  or  men  ill-famed, 

While  they  thy  manlier  destinies 

Who  shaped,  so  long  remain  unnamed  ? 

The  Dutchman  strides  his  steed  new-gilt 
In  thy  chief  city's  stateliest  way  ; 

The  Kings  thy  monarchy  who  built, 
Or  died  to  save  it,  where  are  they  ? 

Clontarf!     That  Prince  who  smote  the  Dane, 
That  Prince  who  raised  a  realm  laid  low — 

On  thee  what  hath  he  ?     Benburb's  plain 
No  record  bears  of  Owen  Roe  ! 

Forgotten  now  as  Nial  and  Conn 
Are  those  twin  stars  of  Yellow-Ford 

Who  freed  Tyrconnell  and  Tyrone, 
Their  country's  altars  who  restored. 

The  man  who  feared  no  hireling's  scoff, 
Thine  Abdiel  'mid  the  apostate  crew— 

Grattan  !— his  statue  stands  far  off; 
Berkeley  wins  late  his  laurels  due. 


INDUSTRY.  23 

Thy  quarries  have  a  barren  womb, 

My  country,  or  a  monster  birth  ! 
Belong  they,  statue,  pillar,  tomb, 

To  vice  alone  or  modern  worth  ? 

Arise,  and  for  thy  proper  weal 

Yield  thy  great  Dead  their  honors  late  : 

Those  only  understand  who  feel 

How  self-disfranchised  are  the  mgrate  ! 


ODE   III. 

INDUSTRY. 


FREE  children  of  a  land  set  free, 

A  land  late  bound  in  fetters, 
Demand  ye  why  your  critic  guest 

Scoffs  oft  in  you  his  betters  ? 
Nor  race  alone,  nor  creed  to  him 

Is  stumbling-block,  or  scandal : 
Your  rags  offend  !  he  loathes  in  you 

Light  purse  and  slipshod  sandal. 

II. 

His  Virtue  builds  on  Self-Respect : 

Upon  that  clay  foundation, 
Nor  rock  nor  sand,  his  trophies  stand, 

The  unit,  and  the  nation. 


24  INDUSTRY. 

Sad  martyr  of  a  finite  Hope, 

Nor  seeks  he,  nor  attains  he 
The  all-heavenly  prize.     He  toils  for  Earth  ; 

But  what  he  seeks  that  gains  he. 

in. 

Grasp  ye,  with  ampler  aim,  that  good 

His  tragic  creed  o'erprizes  : 
With  loftier  Mind  revere  in  him 

The  Will  that  energizes, 
The  strong  right  hand,  the  lion  heart, 

The  industrial  truth  and  valor  : 
When  comes  reverse  he  too  can  die, 

But  not  in  dirt  and  squalor. 

IV. 

The  natural  Virtues  yield  to  those 

Of  heavenly  birth  affiance  : 
O  ye  so  strong  in  Faith,  be  strong 

In  Truth  and  Self-Reliance  ! 
.    Strength,  Justice,  Prudence,  Self-constraint  !- 

Behold  the  four-square  turret 
From  which — a  triad  spire — should  rise 

The  Virtues  of  the  Spirit ! 

v. 

Upon  your  brows  the  sunrise  breaks  : 

Then  scorn  the  dirgeful  ditty  ! 
Never,  be  sure,  the  heart  was  strong 

That  dallied  with  self-pity. 


INDUSTRY.  25 

Your  Fathers'  part  was  this— to  bear- 
That  plague  they  bore  God  stayeth  : 

Be  yours  to  act  !     To  manhood  born, 
Be  men  !     "  Who  worketh,  prayeth." 


VI. 

Son  of  the  sorrowing  Isle,  her  eyes 

Arraign  thee  for  unkindness  ! 
Her  shipless  seas,  her  stagnant  moors 

Accuse  thy  sloth  or  blindness. 
Set  free  her  greatness — sing  to  her, 

New  harvests  waving  round  thee, 
"  Thy  son  with  golden  robe  hath  girt, 

With  golden  crown  hath  crowned  thee  !" 

VII. 

Young  maid,  that  bend'st  above  thy  wheel, 

So  pure,  so  meek,  so  simple, 
The  wool  out-drawing  as  the  smile 

Developes  from  the  dimple, 
Smile  on  !  thou  cloth'st  thy  country's  feet, 

Those  feet  long  bare  and  bleeding  ! 
Smile  on  !  thou  send'st  her  Faith  abroad 

With  seemlier  swiftness  speeding  ! 

VIII. 

Advance,  victorious  Years  !  we  land 

On  solid  shores  and  stable  : 
Recede,  dim  seas,  and  painted  cloud 

Of  legend  and  of  fable  ! 


26 


THE   IRISH  CONSTITUTION  OF  1782. 

The  Heroic  Age  returns.     Of  old 

Men  fought  with  spears  and  arrows  : — 

The  sea-bank  is  the  shield  to-day : 
The  true  knight  drains  and  harrows  ! 


SONNET. 

THE  IRISH   CONSTITUTION  OF    1782. 

NOBLES  of  Ireland  !  they  your  work  arraign 
That  won  your  victory  !     Lightning-like  the  thrill 
Of  Liberty  speeds  on  !     O  land,  be  still ! 
Your  patriots  toiled,  your  vales  rejoice  in  vain. 
"  Our  Nation  wears  no  more  the  servile  stain  ! 
Our  People  turns  no  more  the  conqueror's  mill !" 
Nation  and  People  have  ye  none  !     Your  Will 
Tyrannic  knits  anew  the  severed  chain  !* 
Nobles  of  Ireland  that  would  fain  be  free 
Set  free  your  Irish  Helots  !     From  that  hour 
Nation  and  People  equalled  shall  ye  stand 
With  England,  side  to  side,  or  brand  to  brand ! 
Boast  not  till  then  a  Freedom  void  of  Power  : 
A  laughing  Devil  mocks  such  Liberty  ! 


*  The  refusal  of   Parliamentary  Reform,   and  of  Catholic  Emancipa 
tion,  rendered  the  Irish  Constitution  of  1782  a  nullity. 


ULSTER'S   "TENANT  RIGHT."  27 


ODE  IV. 

IRELAND'S  CHURCH  RIGHT  AND  ULSTER'S  "TENANT 
RIGHT  ;"  OR,  THE  IRISH  CATHOLIC  TO  THE  PRO 
TESTANT  OF  THE  NORTH. 


[The  "  Tenant  Right,"  sometimes  called  the  "  Old  Custom  "  of  Ulster, 
founds  its  claims  to  Compensation,  Fixity  of  Tenure,  etc.,  not  on  Statutes, 
but  on  Common  Law,  Prescription,  and  Usage — principles  of  which  the 
stronghold  has  ever  been  that  traditional  Religion  denounced  by  those 
who  make  their  especial  boast  of"  Protestant  Ulster."] 


STRONG  Saxons  of  the  dauntless  North 

That  jeer  your  Gaelic  neighbors, 
And  cleave  your  dark,  ice-muffled  earth 

With  earlier,  sturdier  labors, 
Fierce  Ulster's  Tenants — scarce  "at  will" — 

That  storm  at  "  Landlord  plunder," 
And  swear  that  from  the  fields  you  till 

No  force  your  hands  shall  sunder  : — 

II. 

That  toil  in  dream,  that  heap  your  hoards, 

That,  sober-sad,  or  tipsy, 
Scourge  Mother  Earth,  great  guano-Lords, 

Still  crying,  "  More,  old  gipsy  !" 
And,  like  the  Dutch,  that  "fished  to  shore" 

Through  roaring  waves  the  dry  land, 
Dig,  delve,  and  through  the  trench's  door, 

Drag  up  a  second  island:— 


28  ULSTER'S   "TENANT  RIGHT," 

III. 

Your  world  is  Nature's  world !     'Tis  well 

Yet  know  there  lives  another, 
A  world  of  ampler  plain  and  dell, 

A  kindlier,  mightier  Mother, 
A  loftier  sphere  the  soul  that  feeds, 

That  sways  with  instincts  finer 
And  satisfies  from  deeper  meads 

Necessities  diviner. 


IV. 

Faith  rules  that  world !     'Twas  yours  of  old  ! 

Aye,  ages  following  ages 
It  teemed  and  reared  the  sacred  mould 

Of  patriot  saints  and  sages : 
The  Common  Law  of  Christendom 

The  common  Right  protected : 
The  Church  was  heritage  and  home — 

Themselves  your  sires  "ejected." 

v. 

Truths  richer  than  the  Australian  mine 

They  spurned  on  Power's  pretences : 
The  Faith's  celestial  Discipline 

Gave  way  to  legal  fences : 
Amid  a  People's  curses  deep, 

Or  silent  execration, 
The  men  that  readiest  proved  to  creep 

Were  pitch-forked  into  station. 


ULSTER'S  "TENANT  RIGHT."  29 

VI. 

Scorners  of  Statute  Law,  who  hail 

The  ways  traditionary, 
What  way  found  grace  when  Knox  made  pale 

The  royal  cheek  of  Mary? 
When  Luther,  windier  still  than  Knox, 

Proclaimed  his  Prophet  mission, 
And  Nations  veered  like  weather-cocks, 

Say,  where  was  then  "  Tradition "  ? 

VII. 

Sirs,  there  are  storms  far  off  that  die 

While  near  storms  bruit  and  bluster  ! 
You  hear  the  falling  roof-tree — I 

The  violated  cloister  ! 
When  winter  blasts  through  fanes  stripped  bare 

First  dashed,  as  still  they  dash  on, 
Was  "  Fixity  of  Tenure  "  there  ? 

Where  then  was  "  Compensation"  ? 

VIII. 

Maintainers  of  the  "  Old  Custom,"  learn 

Old  graves  no  more  to  trample  ! 
Sad  lyrists  of  the  abandoned  barn 

Restore  the  ravished  temple  ! 
Base  not  old  rights  on  novel  wrong! 

True  Faith  makes  strong  and  true  men  : 
Tyrone  was  true — Tyrconnel  strong — 

Ye  transient  are,  and  new  men  ! 


30  CHRISTIAN  EDUCATION. 

IX. 

None  questions  now  King  James'  right, 

Or  Ulster's  "young  Plantation:" 
Time  heals  with  lenient  touch,  like  light, 

The  scars  of  confiscation  : 
Old  claims  die  out ;    new  rights  succeed ; 

Men  learn  content,  or  feign  it ; 
But  Churches  still  live  on,  and  bleed, 

Demand  redress,  and  gain  it. 

x. 

Ye  know  the  weight  of  kine  and  corn, 

The  price  of  beans  and  vetches  ; 
Tell  me  what  price  a  Nation  torn 

In  twain  by  faction  fetches  ? 
Be  one  !     'Tis  vain  to  storm  or  'plain, 

Till  then,  at  "Landlord  plunder:" 
"Upper,"  till  then,  must  rule  and  reign, 

And  "Under"  still  be  under. 

January,  1855. 

SONNET. 

CHRISTIAN    EDUCATION. 

WHAT  man  can  check  the  aspiring  life  that  thrills 
And  glows  through  all  this  multitudinous  wood  ; 
That  throbs  in  each  minutest  leaf  and  bud, 
And,  like  a  mighty  wave  ascending,  fills 
More  high  each  day  with  flowers  the  encircling  hills  ?— 
From  earth's  maternal  heart  her  ancient  blood 
Mounts  to  her  breast  in  milk  !    her  breath  doth  brood 


THE   BUILDING   OF  A    COTTAGE.  31 

O'er  fields  Spring-flushed  round  unimprisoned  rills  ! 
Such  life  is  also  in  the  breast  of  Man  ; 
Such  blood  is  at  the  heart  of  every  Nation, 
Not  to  be  chained  by  Statesman's  frown  or  ban. 
Hope  and  be  strong :    fear  and  be  weak  !     The  seed 
Is  sown  :    be  ours  the  prosperous  growth  to  feed 
With  food,  not  poison — Christian  Education  ! 


ODE    V. 

THE   BUILDING   OF   A   COTTAGE. 


LAY  foundations  deep  and  strong 

On  the  rock,  and  not  the  sand  : 
Morn  her  sacred  beam  has  flung 

O'er  our  ancient  land. 
And  the  children  through  the  heather 

Beaming  joy  from  frank  bright  eyes, 
Dance  along,  and  sing  together 

Their  loud  ecstasies. 
Children,  hallowed  song  to-day  ! 
Sing,  aloud  ;  but,  singing,  pray  ! 
Orphic  measures,  proudly  swelling, 

Lifted  cities  in  old  time  : 
Build  we  now  a  humbler  dwelling 

With  a  lowlier  rhyme  ! 
Unless  God  the  work  sustain, 
Our  toils  are  vain,    and  worse  than  vain  : 
Better  to  roam  for  aye,  than  rest 
Under  the  impious  shadow  of  a  roof  unblest  ! 


32  THE   BUILDING  OF  A    COTTAGE. 


II. 


Mix  the  mortar  o'er  and  o'er, 

Holy  music  singing  : 
Holy  water  o'er  it  pour, 

Flowers  and  tresses  flinging  : 
Bless  we  now  the  earthen  floor  : 

May  good  Angels  love  it ! 
Bless  we  now  the  new-raised  door  : 

And  that  cell  above  it ! 
Holy  cell,  and  holy  shrine 
For  the  Maid  and  Child  divine  ! 
Remember  thou  that  see'st  her  bending 

O'er  that  babe  upon  her  knee, 
All  Heaven  is  ever  thus  extending 

Its  arms  of  love  round  thee  ! 
Such  thought  thy  step  make  light  and  gay 
As  yon  elastic  linden  spray 
On  the  smooth  air  nimbly  dancing — 
Thy  spirits  like  the  dew  glittering  thereon  and 
glancing  ! 


in. 


Castles  stern  in  pride  o'er-gazing 

Subject  leagues  of  wolds  and  woods  ; 
Palace  fronts  their  fretwork  raising 

'Mid  luxurious  solitudes  ; 
These,  through  clouds  their  heads  uplifting, 

The  lightning  challenge  and  invoke  : 
His  balance  Power  is  ever  shifting — 

The  reed  outlasts  the  oak. 


THE  BUILDING  OF  A    COTTAGE.  33 

Live,  thou  cottage  !  live  and  flourish, 
Like  a  bank  that  spring  showers  nourish, 
Bright  with  field-flowers  self-renewing, 

Annual  violets,  dateless  clover — 
Eyes  of  flesh  thy  beauty  viewing 

With  a  glance  may  pass  it  over ; 
But  to  eyes  that  wiser  are 
Thou  glitterest  like  the  morning  star  ; 
And  o'er  wise  hearts  thy  beauty  breathes 
Such  sweets  as  morn  shall  waft  from  those  new- 
planted  wreaths  ! 

IV. 

Our  toils — not  toils — are  all  but  ended  ; 

The  day  has  wandered  by : 
Her  gleams  the  rising  moon  has  blended 

With  the  azure  of  the  sky  : 
Yet  still  the  sunset  lights  are  ranging 

On  from  mossy  stem  to  stem  ; 
Low  winds,  their  odors  vague  exchanging, 

Chaunt  day's  requiem. 
Upon  the  diamonded  panes 
The  crimson  falls  with  fainter  stains. 
More  high  in  heavenward  aspiration 

The  gables  shoot  their  mystic  lines  : 
While  now,  supreme  in  grace  as  station, 

The  tower-like  chimney  shines. 
An  altar  stands  that  tower  beneath  : 
Pure  be  its  flame  in  life  and  death  ! 
Now  westward  point  the  arched  porch — 
Crown  with  a  Cross  the  whole — our  cot  becomes 
a   Church  ! 


34  THE  BUILDING  OF  A    COTTAGE. 

V. 

Kings  of  the  Earth  !  too  frail,  too  small 

This  straw-roofed  tenement  for  you  ? 
Then  lo  !  from  Heaven  my  song  shall  call 

A  statelier  retinue  ! 

They  come,  the  twilight  ether  cheering, 
(Not  vain  the  suppliant  song,  not  vain,) 
Our  earth  on  golden  platform  nearing : 

On  us  their  crowns  they  rain  ! 
Like  Gods  they  stand,  the  portal 
Lighting  with  looks  immortal  ! 
Faith,  on  her  chalice  gazing  deep ; 

And  Justice  with  uplifted  scale  ; 
Meek  Reverence  ;  pure,  undreaming  Sleep  ; 

Valor  in  diamond  mail  ! 
There,  Hope  with  vernal  wreath ;  hard  by 
Indulgent  Love  ;  keen  Purity ; 
And  Truth,  with  radiant  forehead  bare  ; 
And  Mirth,  whose  ringing  laughter  triumphs  o'er 
Despair. 

VI. 

Breathe  low  :  stand  mute  in  reverent  trance  ! 

Those  Potentates  their  mighty  eyes 
Have  fixed  !     Right  well  that  piercing  glance 

Roof,  wall,  and  basement  tries  ! 
Foundations  few  that  gaze  can  meet : 

Therefore  the  Virtues  stay  with  few  : 
But  where  they  once  have  fixed  their  seat, 

Her  home  Heaven  fixes  too  ! 


FOUNDATION  OF  THE  CATHOLIC  UNIVERSITY.    35 

They  enter  now  with  awful  grace 
Their  dedicated  dwelling  place  : 
In  tones  majestical  yet  tender 

They  chaunt  their  consecration  hymn, 
From  jewelled  breasts  a  sacred  splendor 

Heaving  through  shadows  dim. 
The  Rite  is  done  :  the  seed  is  sown  : 
Leave,  each  his  offering,  and  be  gone  ! 
Stay,  ye  for  whom  were  raised  these  walls — 
Possession  God  hath  ta'en ;  and  now  His  guests 
He  calls. 


ODE    VI. 

THE    FOUNDATION    OF     THE     CATHOLIC    UNIVERSITY. 
I. 

THE  Land,  how  lies  she  cold  and  dead, 

When  on  her  brow  long  since 
Freedom  its  virtuous  radiance  shed, 

And  drove  the  darkness  thence  ? 
The  child  at  her  its  stone  may  fling  ; 
The  dragon-fly  her  cheek  may  sting — 
"  Ho  !    murdered  was  she,  or  self-slain, 
This  bulk  with  blackness  in  the  brain  ?" 

ii. 
'Tis  past !    the  Realm  has  learned  its  want  : 

The  Nation  wills  its  work  : 
Her  eastern  skies  with  lustre  pant, 

Vacant  till  now  and  murk  : 


36  FOUNDATION  OF  THE  CATHOLIC  UNIVERSITY. 

She  swears  with  heavenly  Faith  to  join 
The  manly  mind,  the  fixed  design, 
The  mastering  knowledge — public  heart — 
The  nature  crowned,  not  quenched  by  art. 

in. 

'Twas  in  a  dolorous  hour,  'twas  then 

When  Famine  plagued  our  coast, 
And  Penal  Law,*  let  loose  again, 

Trod  feebly  like  a  ghost 
The  land  he  once  had  stamped  in  blood, 
'Twas  then  her  need  we  understood  : 
'Twas  then  her  Genius  from  a  cloud 
Looked  forth  and  cried  to  us  aloud  ! 

IV. 

The  People  heard ;   and,  far  and  wide, 

Like  some  long  clarion  blast, 
By  town,  and  plain,  and  mountain  side 

The  inspiring  Mandate  passed : 
His  children's  crust  the  peasant  shared 
With  him  that  brought  the  news,  and  bared 
A  hearth  already  blank  to  aid 
That  great  emprize  so  long  delayed. 

v. 
In  Glendalough's  green  vale,  and  where 

The  skylark  sings  o'er  Lee, 
Once  more  her  domes  shall  Wisdom  rear, 

And  house  the  brave  and  free ; 

*  The  Ecclesiastical  Titles   Act,  1851. 


FOUNDATION  OF  THE   CATHOLIC    UNIVERSITY.  37 

From  Cashel's  rock,  th'  old  Minster  fane 
Shall  laugh  in  light  o'er  Thomond's  plain ; 
Grey  Arran  pierce  the  sea-fog's  gloom ; 
Kildare  her  vestal  lamp  relume. 

VI. 

Where  Shannon  sweeps  by  lost  Athlone 

To  Limerick's  Castle  walls 
New  college  choirs  the  river's  moan 

Shall  tune  at  intervals  ; 
By  kingly  Clonmacnoise,  and  Cong, 
Fresh  notes  shall  burst  of  olden  song, 
And  by  that  wave-washed  northern  shore, 
Whereon  they  toiled— those  "  Masters  Four." 

VII. 

They  toiled  and  toiled  till  sank  the  night : 

They  toiled  till  aching  morn 
Through  mist  of  breakers  rose  with  light 

Uncertain  and  forlorn : 
Their  country's  Present  overcast, 
They  vowed  thus  much  should  live — her  Past  ! 
A  beam  o'er  graves  heroic  shed, 
And  haunt  with  dreams  the  Oppressor's  bed. 

VIII. 

Lo  !   where  we  stand,  one  day  shall  spread 

Cloisters  like  branching  wood  : 
On  the  great  Founder's  sculptured  head* 

Our  Irish  sunshine  brood  ! 

*  Dr.  Newman. 


FOUNDATION  OF  THE   CATHOLIC   UNIVERSITY. 

I  see  the  fountains  gem  the  grass  ; 
Through  murmuring  courts  the  red  gown  pass 
Religion's  pageant,  and  the  vaunt 
Of  Learning  mailed  and  militant. 

IX. 

I  see,  entombed  in  marble  state, 

Roderick— O1  More— Red  Hugh  ; 
The  two  crowned  Mourners* — wise  too  late — 

Their  tardy  wisdom  rue : 
I  see  the  Martyrs  of  old  time ; 
The  warriors  hymned  in  Irish  rhyme  ; 
And  Burke  and  Grattan,  just  in  deed, 
Though  nurslings  of  an  alien  creed. 

x. 

The  vision  deepens  :   tower-cast  shades 

With  sunset  longer  grow : 
High  ranged  round  airy  colonnades 

Fronting  that  western  glow, 
Lean  out  stone  Patrons,  veiled  all  day, 
But  vast  at  eve  against  the  grey, 
Like  those  great  Hopes  that  o'er  us  shine 
Distinctest  in  our  life's  decline. 

XI. 

'Tis  night:   the  dusk  arcades  between 

Glimmers,  O  Derg,  thy  Lake ! 
The  May  moon  o'er  it  trails  serene 

Her  silver-woven  wake : 

*  Charles  I.  and  James  II, 


WRITTEN  IN  CUMBERLAND,   SEPT.    1860.  39 

What  songs  are  those  ?    Each  boat  has  crossed 
Half-way  that  radiance — and  is  lost, 
Returning  from  the  ivied  pile 
That  hallows  Iniscaltra's  Isle. 


XII. 

The  moon  is  set,  and  all  is  dark, 

Yet  still  those  oars  keep  time : 
The  great  clock  shakes  the  courts,  and  hark, 

That  many-steepled  chime  ! 
From  college  on  to  college  roll 
The  peals  o'er  creek  and  woody  knoll! — 
My  Country,  will  it!     Fancy's  store 
Is  rich :   yet  Faith  can  grant  thee  more ! 


SONNET. 

WRITTEN    IN    CUMBERLAND,    SEPT.     i860. 

LAUREATES  of  Freedom  o'er  these  hills  sublime 
That  stride  and  ask,  "  What  news  ?   What  tyrant's  fall 
Draws  out  to-day,  in  ruin  musical, 
The  storm-stop  of  an  else  monotonous  chime  ?" 
The  news  is  this — strange  news  in  prose  or  rhyme — 
They  that  redeemed  this  land,  then  Satan's  thrall, 
To  Christ,  were  Ireland's  sons  !     lona's  call 
Your  fathers  spurned  not  in  Faith's  happy  prime  !* 


*  See  the  Count  de  Montalembert's  noble  work,  "  The  Monks  of  the 
West" 


40  AFTER  ONE   OF  THE  FAMINE   YEARS. 

To-day  the  sons  of  Ireland,  far  and  near, 
Amerced  of  altar,  priest,  and  sacrifice, 
Like  the  blind  laboring  horse  or  harnessed  steer, 
Sweat  in  your  fields !    I  speak  where  none  replies 
Calm  as  a  sceptic's  smile  still  shines  the  sun : 
The  slowly  sailing  cloud  sails  slowly  on! 


ODE    VII. 

AFTER  ONE  OF  THE  FAMINE  YEARS. 


THE  golden  dome,  the  Tyrian  dye, 

And  all  that  yearning  ocean 
Yields  from  red  caves  to  glorify 

Ambition,  or  devotion — 
I  leave  them — leave  the  bank  of  Seine, 

And  those  high  towers  that  shade  it, 
To  tread  my  native  fields  again, 

And  muse  on  glories  faded. 

ii. 

The  monumental  city  stands 

Around  me  in  its  vastness, 
Girdling  the  spoils  of  all  the  lands 

In  war's  imperial  fastness. 
That  stony  scroll  of  every  clime 

Some  record  boasts  or  sample  ; 
Cathedral  piles  of  oldest  time, 

Huge  arch  and  pillared  temple. 


AFTER  ONE  OF  THE  FAMINE   YEARS.  4 1 

III. 

They  charge  across  the  field  of  Mars; 

The  earth  beneath  them  shaking 
As  breaks  a  rocket  into  stars 

The  columned  host  is  breaking: 
It  forms  :  it  bursts  :— new  hosts  succeed  : 

They  sweep  the  Tuileries  under: 
The  thunder  from  the  Invalides 

Answers  the  people's  thunder. 


IV. 


Behold !   my  heart  is  otherwhere, 

My  soul  these  pageants  cheer  not : 
A  cry  from  famished  vales  I  hear, 

That  cry  which  others  hear  not. 
Sad  eyes,  as  of  a  noontide  ghost, 

Whose  grief,  not  grace,  first  won  me, 
'Mid  regal  pomps  ye  haunt  me  most : — 

There  most  your  power  is  on  me. 


v. 


Last  night,  what  time  the  convent  shades, 

Far-stretched,  the  pavement  darkened 
Where  rose  but  late  the  barricades 

Alone  I  stood,  and  hearkened ; 
Thy  dove-note,  O  my  country,  thine, 

In  long-drawn  modulation, 
Went  by  me,  linked  with  words  divine 

That  stayed  all  earthly  passion  ! 


42  AFTER  ONE   OF  THE  FAMINE    YEARS. 

^ 

VI. 

A  man  entranced,  and  yet  scarce  sad, 

Since  then  I  see  in  vision 
The  scenes  whereof  my  boyhood  had 

Possession,  not  fruition. 
Dark  shadows  sweep  the  landscape  o'er, 

Each  other  still  pursuing  ; 
And  lights  from  sinking  suns  once  more 

Grow  golden  on  the  ruin. 

VII. 

Dark  violet  hills  extend  their  chains 

Athwart  the  saffron  even, 
Pure  purple  stains  not  distant  plains  : 

And  earth  is  mixed  with  heaven : 
One  cloud  o'er  half  the  sunset  broods  ; 

And  from  its  ragged  edges 
The  wine-black  shower  descends  like  floods 

Down  dashed  from  diamond  ledges. 

VIII. 

Through  rifted  fanes  the  damp  wind  sweeps, 

Chanting  a  dreary  psalter  : 
I  see  the  bones  that  rise  in  heaps 

Where  rose  of  old  the  altar ; 
Once  more  beside  the  blessed  well 

I  see  the  cripple  kneeling  : 
I  hear  the  broken  chapel  bell 

Where  organs  once  were  pealing. 


AFTER  ONE  OF  THE  FAMINE    YEARS.  43 

IX. 

I  come,  and  bring  not  help,  for  God 

Withdraws  not  yet  the  chalice: 
Still  on  your  plains  by  martyrs  trod 

And  o'er  your  hills  and  valleys, 
His  name  a  suffering  Saviour  writes— 

Letters  black-drawn,  and  graven 
On  lowly  huts,  and  castled  heights, 

Dim  haunts  of  newt  and  raven. 


I  come,  and  bring  not  song  ;   for  why 

Should  grief  from  fancy  borrow  ? 
Why  should  a  lute  prolong  a  sigh, 

Sophisticating  sorrow  ? 
Dull  opiates,  down  !     To  wind  and  wave, 

Lethean  weeds  I  fling  you: 
Anacreontics  of  the  grave, 

Not  mine  the  heart  to  sing  you  ! 


XI. 


I  come  the  breath  of  sighs  to  breathe, 

Yet  add  not  unto  sighing 
To  kneel  on  graves,  yet  drop  no  wreath 

On  those  in  darkness  lying. 
Sleep,  chaste  and  true,  a  little  while, 

The  Saviour's  flock,  and  Mary's  : 
And  guard  their  reliques  well,  O  Isle, 

Thou  chief  of  reliquaries  ! 


44  AFTER   ONE   OF   THE  FAMINE    YEARS. 

XII. 

Blessed  are  they  that  claim  no  part 

In  this  world's  pomp  and  laughter  : 
Blessed  the  pure  ;    the  meek  of  heart : — 

Blest  here  ;   more  blest  hereafter. 
"  Blessed  the  mourners."     Earthly  goods 

Are  woes,  the  Master  preaches  : — 
Embrace  thy  sad  beatitudes, 

And  recognize  thy  riches  ! 

XIII. 

And  if,  of  every  land  the  guest, 

Thine  exile  back  returning 
Finds  still  one  land  unlike  the  rest, 

Discrowned,  disgraced,  and  mourning, 
Give  thanks  !     Thy  flowers,  to  yonder  skies 

Transferred,  pure  airs  are  tasting ; 
And,  stone  by  stone,  thy  temples  rise 

In  regions  everlasting. 

XIV. 

Sleep  well,  unsung  by  idle  rhymes, 

Ye  sufferers  late  and  lowly  ; 
Ye  saints  and  seers  of  earlier  times, 

Sleep  well  in  cloisters  holy ! 
Above  your  bed  the  bramble  bends, 

The  yew  tree  and  the  alder  : 
Sleep  well,  O  fathers,  and  O  friends, 

And  in  your  silence  moulder  ! 


TRUE    AND    FALSE    LOVE    OF  FREEDOM.          45 

SONNET. 

TRUE  AND  FALSE  LOVE  OF  FREEDOM. 

THEY  that  for  freedom  feel  not  love  but  lust, 
Irreverent,  knowing  not  her  spiritual  claim, 
And  they,  the  votaries  blind  of  windy  fame, 
And  they  who  cry  "  I  will  because  I  must," 
They  too  that  launch,  screened  by  her  shield  august, 
A  bandit's  shaft,  some  private  mark  their  aim, 
And  they  that  make  her  sacred  cause  their  game 
From  restlessness  or  spleen  or  sheer  disgust 
At  duteous  days  ; — all  these,  the  brood  of  night, 
Diverse,  by  one  black  note  detected  stand, 
Their  scorn  of  every  barrier  raised  by  Right 
To  awe  self-will.     Howe'er  by  virtue  bann'd, 
By  reason  spurn'd,  that  act  the  moment  needs 
Licensed  they  deem  ; — holy  whate'er  succeeds. 

SONNET. 

ROMANS,  that  lift  to  Liberty,  your  God, 
Not  vows,  but  swords,  suppliants  self-deified, 
Betwixt  her  altars  and  your  rock  of  pride 
A  stream  there  rolls  fiercer  than  Alpine  flood, 
A  fatal  stream  of  murder'd  Rossi's  blood  !* 
For  Liberty  he  lived  ;  and  when  he  died, 
Prisoner,  that  new  Rienzi's  corse  beside, 
The  King,  the  Pontiff,  and  the  Father  stood  ! 


*  Such  deeds  as  the  murders  of  Rossi,  of  Lincoln,  and  of  Thomas 
D'Arcy  McGee  remind  us  sadly  of  O'Connell's  reiterated  warning  : 
"  He  who  commits  a  crime  is  the  enemy  of  his  country.'''' 


46  THE    DESOLATION   OF    THE    WEST. 

What  rite  piacular  from  that  impious  deed 

Hath  cleansed  your  hands  ?     Accuse  not  adverse  stars 

If  guilt  unwept  achieve  not  virtue's  meed. 

Years  heal  not  treason.     All  his  sands  old  Time 

Shakes  down  to  keep  unblurr'd  those  characters 

Wherein  are  traced  the  calendars  of  crime. 


ODE    VIII. 

THE  DESOLATION    OF   THE   WEST. 

"Migravit  Judah  propter  afflictionem." 
I. 

DAY  after  day,  mile  after  mile, 

I  roamed  a  land  that  knew  no  smile 

With  awe  akin  to  dread  : 
The  land  remained  :  the  hills  were  there 
The  vales — but  few  remained  to  share 

That  realm  untenanted. 


ii. 

Far-circling  wastes,  far-bending  skies, 
Clouds  as  at  Nature's  obsequies 

Slow  trailing  scarf  and  pall : — 
In  whistling  winds  on  creaked  the  crane  : 
Grey  lakes  upstared  from  moor  and  plain 

Like  eyes  on  God  that  call. 


THE    DESOLATION   OF    THE    WEST.  47 

III. 

Above  the  hoary  main  a  bluff 
Rose  with  unnumbered  gables  rough 

Beneath  a  sky  of  lead : 
Nearer  I  drew  :  the  tale  was  told  ! 
Grim,  roofless  walls,  and  hearths  long  cold  ; — 

The  villagers  were  dead. 

IV. 

That  race  of  old  from  Ulster  driven 
Once  more — for  ocean — or  for  heaven — 

Had  rushed  o'er  Connaught's  bound : 
Void  were  the  homes  :  the  churchyards  full : 
Ten  years  had  passed  ;  and  many  a  skull 

Whitened  the  churchyard  ground. 

v. 

Turn  where  I  might,  no  blade  of  green 
Diversified  the  tawny  scene : 

Bushless  the  waste,  and  bare  : 
A  dusky  red  the  hills,  as  though 
Some  deluge  ebbing  years  ago 

Had  left  but  sea-weed  there. 


Dark  red  the  vales  :  that  single  hue 
O'er  rotting  swamps  an  aspect  threw 

Monotonous  yet  grand  : 
Long  feared — for  centuries  in  decay — 
Like  a  maimed  lion  there  it  lay, 

What  once  had  been  a  Land. 


48  THE    DESOLATION   OF    THE    WEST. 

VII. 

Yet,  day  by  day,  as  dropt  the  sun, 
A  furnace  glare  through  vapors  dun 

Illumed  each  mountain's  head  : 
Old  tower  and  keep  their  crowns  of  flame 
That  hour  assumed  ;  old  years  of  shame 

Like  fiends  exorcised,  fled. 

VIII. 

That  hour,  from  sorrow's  trance  awaking, 
My  soul,  like  day  from  darkness  breaking, 

With  might  prophetic  fired, 
To  those  red  hills  and  setting  suns 
Returned  antiphonal  response, 

As  gleam  by  gleam  expired. 

IX. 

And  in  my  spirit  grew  and  gathered 
Knowledge  that  Ireland's  worst  was  weathered, 

Her  last  dread  penance  paid  ; 
Conviction  that  for  earthly  scath 
In  world-wide  victories  of  her  Faith 

Atonement  should  be  made. 

x. 

Well  rose  to  heaven  the  hosts  who  there 
Upbuild  the  omnipotence  of  prayer 

O'er  depths  of  vanquished  grief! 
Well  breasted  they  the  billows  drear 
A  western  Ireland  who  uprear 

Like  some  slow  coral  reef! 


THE    DESOLATION   OF    THE    WEST.  49 

XI. 

Thus  musing,  in  remoter  vision 

Of  God's  "New  Heavens"  I  had  fruition, 

And  saw,  and  inly  burned : 
And  I  beheld  the  multitude 
Of  those  whose  robes  were  washed  in  blood, 

Saw  chains  to  sceptres  turned  ! 

XII. 

And  I  saw  Thrones,  and  Seers  thereon 
Judging,  and  Tribes  like  snow  that  shone, 

And  diamond  towers  high-piled, 
Towers  of  that  City  theirs  at  last, 
Through  tribulations  who  have  passed, 

And  theirs,  the  undefiled. 

XIII. 

A  Land  become  a  Monument ! 

Man  works  ;  but  God's  concealed  intent 

Converts  his  worst  to  best. 
The  first  of  Altars  was  a  Tomb- 
Ireland  !  thy  grave-stone  shall  become 

God's  Altar  in  the  West ! 

December  12,  1860. 


5°  AGAINST   FALSE    FREEDOM. 


ODE  IX. 


AGAINST  FALSE  FREEDOM. 


THE  Nations  have  their  parts  assign'd  : 
The  deaf  one  watches  for  the  blind : 
The  blind  for  him  that  hears  not  hears 
Harmonious  as  the  heavenly  spheres 
Despite  their  outward  fret  and  jar 
Their  mutual  ministrations  are. 
Some  shine  on  history's  earlier  page ; 
Some  prop  the  world's  declining  age  : 
One,  one  reserves  her  buried  bloom 
To  flower-perchance  on  Winter's  tomb. 


u. 


Greece,  weak  of  Will  but  strong  in  Thought, 
To  Rome  her  arts  and  science  brought : — 
Rome,  strong  yet  barbarous,  gain'd  from  her 
A  staff,  but,  like  Saint  Christopher, 
Knew  not  for  whom  his  strength  to  use, 
What  yoke  to  bear,  what  master  choose. 
His  neck  the  giant  bent  ! — thereon 
The  Babe  of  Bethlehem  sat  !     Anon 
That  staff  his  prop,  that  sacred  freight 
His  guide,  he  waded  through  the  strait, 
And  enter'd  at  a  new  world's  gate. 


AGAINST   FALSE    FREEDOM.  51 


III. 

On  that  new  stage  were  played  once  more 
The  parts  in  Greece  rehearsed  before  : 
Round  fame's  Olympic  stadium  vast 
The  new-born,  emulous  Nations  raced  ; 
Now  Spain,  now  France  the  headship  won 
(Unrisen  the  Russian  Macedon) : 
But  naught,  O  Ireland,  like  to  thee 
Hath  been  !     A  Sphinx-like  mystery, 
At  the  world's  feast  thou  sat'st  death-pale  ; 
And  blood-stains  tinged  thy  sable  veil. 

IV. 

Apostle,  first,  of  worlds  unseen ! 
For  ages,  then,  deject  and  mean  : — 
Be  sure,  sad  land,  a  concord  lay 
Between  thy  darkness  and  thy  day  ! 
Thy  hand,  had  temporal  gifts  been  thine, 
Had  lost,  perchance,  the  things  divine. 
Truth's  witness  sole  !     The  insurgent  North 
Gave  way  when  falsehood's  flood  went  forth 
On  the  scarr'd  coasts  deform'd  and  cleft 
Thou,  like  the  Church's  Rock,  wert  left ! 


v. 

That  Tudor  tyranny  which  stood 
'Mid  wrecks  of  Faith,  was  quench'd  in  blood 
When  Charles,  its  child  and  victim,  lay 
The  Rebel-Prophet's  bleeding  prey. 


AGAINST  FALSE    FREEDOM. 

Once  more  the  destined  wheel  goes  round ! 

Heads  royal  long  are  half  discrown'd  : 

Ancestral  rights  decline  and  die  : — 

Thus  Despotism  and  Anarchy 

Alternate  each  the  other  chase, 

Twin  Bacchantes  wreathed  around  one  vase. 

VI. 

The  future  sleeps  in  night :   but  thou 

O  Island  of  the  branded  brow, 

Her  flatteries  scorn  who  rear'd  by  Seine 

Fraternity's  ensanguined  reign, 

And  for  a  sceptre  twice  abhorr'd 

Twice  welcomed  the  Cesarian  sword — 

Thy  past,  thy  hopes,  are  thine  alone  ! 

Though  crush'd  around  thee  and  o'erthrown, 

The  majesty  of  civil  might 

The  hierarchy  of  social  right 

Firm  state  in  thee  for  ever  hold  ! 

Religion  was  their  life  and  mould. 

VII. 

The  vuigar,  dog-like  eye  can  see 
Only  the  ignobler  traits  in  thee; 
Quaint  follies  of  a  fleeting  time  ; 
Dark  reliques  of  the  oppressor's  crime. 
The  Seer— what  sees  he  ?    What  the  West 
Has  ne'er  except  in  thee  possess'd ; 
The  childlike  Faith,  the  Will  like  fate, 
And  that  Theistic  Instinct  great 
New  worlds  that  summons  from  the  abyss 
"  The  balance  to  redress  of  this." 


THE    ECCLESIASTICAL    TITLES    ACT.  53 


VIII. 

Wait  thou  the  end ;   and  spurn  the  while 

False  Freedom's  meretricious  smile  ! 

Stoop  not  thy  front  to  anticipate 

A  triumph  certain  !     Watch  and  wait ! 

The  schismatic,  by  birth  akin 

To  Socialist  and  Jacobin, 

Will  claim,  when  shift  the  scales  of  power, 

His  natural  place.     Be  thine  that  hour 

With  good  his  evil  to  requite  ; 

To  save  him  in  his  own  despite  ; 

And  backward  scare  the  brood  of  night ! 


SONNET. 

THE    ECCLESIASTICAL    TITLES    ACT. 

THE  statesmen  of  this  day  I  deem  a  tribe 
That  dwarf-like  strut,  a  pageant  on  a  stage 
Theirs  but  in  pomp  and  outward  equipage, 
Ruled  inly  by  the  herd,  or  hireling  scribe. 
They  have  this  skill,  the  dreaded  Power  to  bribe  : 
This  courage,  war  upon  the  weak  to  wage : 
To  turn  from  self  a  Nation's  ignorant  rage  : 
To  unstaunch  old  wounds  with  edict  or  with  jibe. 
Ireland !     The  unwise  one  saw  thee  in  the  dust, 
Crowned  with  eclipse,  and  garmented  with  night, 


54  AN  IRISH   "GOD    SAVE    THE    QUEEN." 

And  in  his  heart  he  said,  "  For  her  no  day !" 
But  thou  long  since  hadst  placed  in  God  thy  trust, 
And  knew'st  that  in  the  under-world,  all  light, 
Thy   sun    moved   eastward.       Watch!     that    East 
grows  grey! 


ODE    X. 

AN    IRISH    "  GOD    SAVE    THE   QUEEN." 


GOD  save  the  Queen  !     A  widowed  land 

May  bless  a  Widow  keeping 
Beside  a  grave  her  faithful  stand, 

Long  watching,  and  late  weeping  : 
Well  versed  in  woes,  that  land  may  pray, 

"  While  the  great  night  draws  nearer, 
Lady,  may  stars  unseen  by  day 

For  thee  grow  clear  and  clearer !' 

n. 

God  save  the  Queen,  and  drive  far  off 

Each  whisperer — clown  or  noble — 
That  dares  her  People's  Faith  to  scoff, 

Her  People's  peace  to  trouble  ; 
Rebuke  bad  laws  that  bar  with  gloom 

Her  empire's  rifted  centre, 
And  freeze  its  Eden  to  a  tomb — 

A  many-centuried  winter. 


AN  IRISH   "GOD    SAVE    THE    QUEEN." 


III. 

God  save  the  Queen  !     His  Strength,  His  Right 

Keep  well : — they  long  have  kept  her  ! 
All  majesties  of  Love  and  Might 

Like  eaglets  haunt  her  sceptre  ! 
Be  hers  a  Realm  for  virtue  praised, 

Not  wealth  alone  ;  a  Nation 
Aloft  in  all  its  Orders  raised, 

With  just  and  wise  gradation. 

IV. 

God  save  the  Queen  !     Let  flatterers  run 
To  hail  the  rising  splendor  : 

To  her  more  dear  the  sinking  sun, 
That  Island  true  and  tender  ! 

She  that  fought  last  for  Charles— for  James- 
Will  yield  more  generous  duty 

To  Virtue's  grace,  and  Sorrow's  claims 
Than  all  thy  new-crowned  beauty ! 

v. 

God  save  the  Queen  !     The  land  that  weeps 

Her  children  fled  or  flying, 
That,  age  by  age,  on  carnage  heaps 

Beheld  her  princes  lying, 
That  land,  O  royal  Mother,  prays, 

Thy  children  round  thee  pressing, 
May  crown  thy  dimmed,  autumnal  days, 

With  glory  and  with  blessing. 


56  PROLOGUE    TO   "HIDDEN   GEMS 


VI. 

God  save  the  Queen  !     From  Chiefs  of  yore 

Who  left  for  Alba's  mountains 
Dalriad  Ireland's  northern  shore,* 

Her  life-blood  tracks  its  fountains  : — 
Ring  out,  strong  voices,  and  be  glad  ! 

Make  answer,  tower  and  steeple  ! 
God  save  the  Queen !     But  let  her  add 

Her  prayer,  "  God  save  my  People  !" 


PROLOGUE    TO     CARDINAL     WISEMAWS 
"HIDDEN 


FOUNDED  ON  THE  LEGEND  OF  ST.  ALEXIUS,  AND 
ACTED  BY  THE  PUPILS  AT  THE  CISTERCIAN  ABBEY 
OF  MOUNT  MELLERAY,  WATERFORD,  ON  THE  FEAST 
OF  THE  TRANSFIGURATION,  1863. 

WHAT  man  is  this,  the  poorest  of  the  poor, 
Who  stands  in  rags  beside  a  princely  door  ? 
Sea-surf,  and  winds  that  pipe  o'er  moorlands  bleak 
Have  made  a  rude  acquaintance  with  his  cheek  ; 
But  from  his  eye  looks  forth  a  quenchless  light, 
Radiance  of  realms  eterne  and  infinite  ! 
He  asks  a  boon  :  —  like  one  of  royal  race, 
That  boon  demands—  the  lowliest  resting  place  ! 

*  See  Sir  Walter  Scott's  History  of  Scotland. 


PROLOGUE    TO   "HIDDEN   GEM."  57 

Round    him    rich    marbles    gleam,   proud    bondsmen 

laugh 

Like  idiots  gibbering  o'er  an  epitaph : 
To  him  a  palace  yields  a  Hermit's  grot : 
He  to  his  own  has  come  ;  they  know  him  not. 


What  man  is  this  that  from  his  pallet  bed 
Sends  up  that  awful  mandate  from  the  Dead  ? 
O'er  the  cold  corse  who  weeps  ?     No  more  beguiled 
The  Father's  heart  turns,  clamorous,  to  the  Child  : 
Great  Rome  is  troubled  :  mute  on  either  hand 
A  Pontiff,  and  an  Emperor  wondering  stand : 
But  Truth  shines  clear  at  last  through  transient  gloom  ; 
And  Love,  Truth's  martyr,  conquers  from  the  tomb. 


Lo  !  this  is  he  at  God's  command  who  spurned 
The  earth,  and  heaven's  high  lore  through  suffering 

learned. 

Fortune,  that,  queen-like,  glittered  at  his  side, 
He  fled,  and  Poverty  embraced — his  Bride. 
Good  Deeds  his  children  were  ;  Wisdom  his  crown ; 
His  sceptre  this,  to  rule  one  heart — his  own. 
Man's  Race  had  moulted  long  its  spirit-wings 
Through  gross  and  lavish  use  of  lawful  things, 
Not  less  than  things  unlawful.     As  a  sign 
God  raised  this  Witness  for  the  things  divine. 
A  greater  light  puts  out,  or  dims,  a  less  : 
He  fled  from  loves  that  innocently  bless 
In  Heavenly  Love's  severe,  yet  sweet  excess. 


5  PROLOGUE    TO    "HIDDEN   GEM." 

High  is  our  theme  !  not  Passion's  feverish  strife  ; 

Not  Fate  at  noon  eclipsing  Love  and  Life  ; 

But  Strength  heroic  by  a  path  austere 

Ascending  darkly  to  a  loftier  sphere. 

For  once  religious  is  a  classic  Muse  : 

But  who  could  here  a  Pagan  hero  choose, 

Here,  where  in  regions  desert,  late,  and  lorn 

Once  more  the  Angelus  attunes  the  morn, 

Where  Compline-Psalm,  and  Nocturn's  wakeful  Rite 

Close  and  unclose  with  song  the  gates  of  night, 

Where  Benedict  and  Bernard's  long-linked  line 

Respond  to  anthems  from  Mount  Aventine  ?* 

O  Thou,  our  Nurse  !     High  Mother  of  our  spirits  ! 

Strong  Prophet  of  that  kingdom  Faith  inherits  ; 

With  garb  ascetic  and  perpetual  Lent 

A  Baptist,  crying  to  the  World,  "  Repent !" 

Yet  inly  clad  with  sun-like  splendor  !     We 

That  beam  transfiguring  recognize  in  thee  ! 

Our    Theme   art    thou  /      The    legend    comes    from 

Rome  : — 
We  found  Alexius  in  our  Irish  home  ! 


*  The  Church  of  St.  Alexius  stands  on  the  Aventine. 


TO   BURNVS    "HIGHLAND   MARY."  59 


TO   BURN&S    "HIGHLAND    MARY: 


O  LOVED  by  him  whom  Scotland  loves, 

Long  loved,  and  honored  duly 
By  all  who  love  the  bard  who  sang 

So  sweetly  and  so  truly  ! 
In  cultured  dales  his  song  prevails  ; 

Thrills  o'er  the  eagle's  aery — 
Who,  who  that  strain  has  caught,  nor  sighed 

For  Burns's  "  Highland  Mary"  ? 

n. 

His  golden  hours  of  youth  were  thine  ; 

Those  hours  whose  flight  is  fleetest  : 
Of  all  his  songs  to  thee  he  gave 

The  freshest  and  the  sweetest. 
Ere  ripe  the  fruit,  one  branch  he  brake, 

Snow-white  with  bursting  blossom  ; 
And  shook  its  dews,  its  incense  shook, 

Above  thy  brow  and  bosom  ! 


in. 

And  when  his  Spring,  alas,  how  soon  ! 

Had  been  by  care  subverted, 
His  Summer,  like  a  god  repulsed, 

Had  from  his  gates  departed 


60  TO    BURNS^S    "HIGHLAND    MARY." 

Beneath  the  evening  star,  once  more, 
Star  of  his  morn  and  even  ! 

To  thee  his  suppliant  hands  he  spread, 
And  hailed  his  love  "in  heaven." 

IV. 

And  if  his  being  in  "  a  waste 

Of  shame  "  too  oft  was  squandered, 
And  if  too  oft  his  feet  ill-starred 

In  ways  erroneous  wandered, 
Ah  !  still  his  spirit's  spirit  bathed 

In  purity  eternal  ; 
And  all  fair  things  through  thee  retained 

For  him  their  aspect  vernal ! 

v. 

Nor  less  that  tenderness  remained 

Thy  favoring  love  implanted  ; 
Compunctious  pity,  yearnings  vague 

For  love  to  earth  not  granted  ; 
Reserve  with  freedom,  female  grace 

Well  matched  with  manly  vigor 
In  songs  where  fancy  twined  her  wreaths 

Round  judgment's  stalwart  rigor. 

VI. 

A  mute  but  strong  appeal  was  made 
To  him  by  feeblest  creatures  : 

In  his  large  heart  had  each  a  part 
That  part  had  found  in  Nature's  : 


TO   BURNS? S   "HIGHLAND    MARY."  6 1 

The  wildered  sheep,  sagacious  dog, 

Old  horse  reduced  and  crazy, 
The  field-mouse  by  the  plough  upturned, 

And  violated  daisy. 

VII. 

In  him  there  burned  that  passionate  glow, 

All  Nature's  soul  and  savor, 
Which  gives  its  hue  to  every  flower, 

To  every  fruit  its  flavor  : 
Nor  less  the  kindred  power  he  felt ; 

That  love  of  all  things  human 
Whereof  the  fiery  centre  is 

The  love  man  bears  to  woman. 

VIII. 

He  sang  the  dignity  of  man, 

Sang  woman's  grace  and  goodness  ; 
Passed  by  the  world's  half-truths,  her  lies 

Pierced   through  with  lance-like  shrewdness. 
Upon  life's  broad  highways  he  stood, 

And  aped  nor  Greek  nor  Roman  ; 
But  snatched  from  heaven  Promethean  fire 

To  glorify  things  common. 

IX. 

He  sang  of  youth,  he  sang  of  age, 
Their  joys,  their  griefs,  their  labors  ; 

Felt  with,  not  for,  the  people,  hailed 
All  Scotland's  sons  his  neighbors  : 


62  TO   BURNS 'S   "HIGHLAND    MARY," 

And  therefore  all  repeat  his  verse — 
Hot  youth,  or  graybeard  steady, 

The  boatman  on  Loch  Etive's  wave, 
The  shepherd  on  Ben  Ledi. 

x. 

He  sang  from  love  of  song ;   his  name 

Dunedin's  cliff  resounded  : — 
He  left  her,  faithful  to  a  fame 

On  truth  and  nature  founded. 
He  sought  true  fame,  not  loud  acclaim  ; 

Himself  and  Time  he  trusted  : 
For  laurels  crackling  in  the  flame 

His  fine  ear  never  lusted! 

XI. 

He  loved,  and  reason  had  to  love, 

The  illustrious  land  that  bore  him  : 
Where'er  he  went,  like  heaven's  broad  tent 

A  star-bright  Past  hung  o'er  him. 
Each  isle  had  fenced  a  saint  recluse, 

Each  tower  a  hero  dying  ; 
Down  every  mountain-gorge  had  rolled 

The  flood  of  foemen  flying. 

XII. 

From  age  to  age  that  land  has  paid 
No  alien  throne  submission  ; 

For  feudal  faith  had  been  her  Law, 
And  Freedom  her  Tradition. 


TO   BURX&S   "HIGHLAND    MARY:1  63 

Where  frowned  the  rocks  had  Freedom  smiled, 
Sung,  'mid  the  shrill  wind's  whistle — 

So  England  prized  her  garden  Rose, 
But  Scotland  loved  her  Thistle. 


XIII. 

Fair  field  alone  the  brave  demand, 

And  Scotland  ne'er  had  lost  it : 
And  honest  prove  the  hate  and  love 

To  objects  meet  adjusted. 
Her  will  and  way  had  ne'er  been  crossed 

In  fatal  contradiction  ; 
Nor  loyalty  to  treason  soured, 

Nor  faith  abused  with  fiction. 

XIV. 

Honor  to  Scotland  and  to  Burns  ! 

In  him  she  stands  collected : 
A  thousand  streams  one  river  make — 

Thus  Genius,  heaven-directed, 
Conjoins  all  separate  veins  of  power, 

In  one  great  soul-creation  ; 
Thus  blends  a  million  men  to  make 

The  Poet  of  the  nation ! 

xv. 

Be  green  for  aye,  green  bank  and  brae 
Around  Montgomery's  Castle  ! 

Blow  there,  ye  earliest  flowers,  and  there, 
Ye  sweetest  song-birds,  nestle  ! 


64  TO    BURNS" S    "HIGHLAND    MARY." 

For  there  was  ta'en  that  last  farewell 

In  hope,  indulged  how  blindly  ; 
And  there  was  given  that  long,  last  gaze 
"That  dwelt"  on  him  "sae  kindly." 

XVI. 

No  word  of  thine  recorded  stands  ; 

Few  words  that  hour  were  spoken : 
Two  Bibles  were  exchanged  that  hour, 

And  some  slight  love-gift  broken  : 
And  there  thy  cold,  faint  hands  he  pressed, 

Thy  head,  by  dew-drops  misted  : 
And  kisses,  ill-resisted  first, 

At  last  were  unresisted. 

XVII. 

Ah  !   cease— she  died.     He,  too,  is  dead. 

Of  all  her  girlish  graces 
Perhaps  one  severed  tress  remains  : 

The  rest  stern  Time  effaces — 
Dust  lost  in  dust !     Not  so  :   a  bloom 

Is  hers  that  ne'er  can  wither  ; 
And  in  that  lay  which  lives  for  aye 

The  twain  live  on  together  ! 


TO    CHARLES   ELIOT  NORTON.  65 


SONNET. 

TO      CHARLES      ELIOT     NORTON,     ON     READING      HIS 
"  VITA    NUOVA "    OF    DANTE. 

NORTON!    I  would  that  oft  in  years  to  come 
The  destined  bard  of  that  brave  land*  of  thine, 
Sole-seated  'neath  the  tempest-roughen'd  pine, 
In  boyhood's  spring  when  genius  first  doth  plume 
Her  wing,  'mid  forest  scents  and  insects'  hum 
And  murmurs  from  the  far  sea  crystalline, 
May  smell  this  blossom  from  the  Tuscan  vine, 
May  hear  this  voice  from  antique  Christendom! 
For  thus  from  love  and  purity  and  might 
Shall  he  receive  his  armor,  and  forth  fare 
Worthy  to  range  in  song  that  country's  knight 
Who  early  burst  the  chains  weak  nations  bear, 
Weeping.     'Mid  trumpet-blasts  and  standards  torn 
To  manhood,  with  loud  cries,  thy  land  was  born! 

March  28,  1860. 


SONNET. 

LET  me  be  near  thee,  and  I  will  not  touch 
Thine  hand,  or  grieve  thee  with  reproach  or  praise, 
Or  look  into  thine  eyes.     Is  this  too  much  ? 
Sweet  Lady,  say  not  so,  for  I  would  gaze 

*  America. 


66  SONNET. 

On  thee  for  ever.     Be  but  what  thou  art, 
A  Beauty  shrined  within  a  silver  haze ; 
And  in  the  silence  let  me  fill  my  heart 
With  memories  calmly  stored  for  wintry  days. 
O  Lady,  there  is  sorrow  here  below! 
And  gladness  seldom  comes,  and  cannot  last : 
Thou  art  all  Summer:    thou  wilt  never  know 
The  cold  and  cloudy  skies  which  I  forecast : 
Deny  not  thou  long  years  of  future  woe 
Their  comfort  sad  and  sole — a  happy  Past. 


SONNET 

HAPPY  are  they  who  kiss  thee,  morn  and  even, 

Parting  the  hair  upon  thy  forehead  white  ; 

For  them  the  sky  is  bluer  and  more  bright, 

And  purer  their  thanksgivings  rise  to  Heaven : 

Happy  are  they  to  whom  thy  songs  are  given  : 

Happy  are  they  on  whom  thy  hands  alight : 

And  happiest  they  for  whom  thy  prayers  at  night 

In  tender  piety  so  oft  have  striven. 

Away  with  vain  regrets  and  selfish  sighs — 

Even  I,  dear  friend,  am  lonely,  not  unblest : 

Permitted  sometimes  on  that  head  to  gaze, 

Or  feel  the  light  of  those  consoling  eyes — 

If  but  a  moment  on  my  cheek  it  stays 

I  know  that  gentle  beam  from  all  the  rest! 


soy  NET.  67 


SONNET. 

PAUSE,  lovely  Lady,  pause  :   with  downward  eye 

Regard  this  humble  tomb  awhile,  and  read 

The  name  of  him  who  loved  you  well,  now  freed 

From  pains  of  love — Ah,  mournful  liberty ! 

Sigh  forth,  too  late,  an  unavailing  sigh  ; 

And,  if  thy  spirit  be  to  pity  moved, 

Pray  that  a  ceaseless  dream  of  her  he  loved 

Abide  upon  him  everlastingly. 

Stay,  lovely  Lady,  stay ;   oh !    stay  for  hours  : 

I  feel  thy  tear-drops  falling  one  by  one : 

Yet  do  not  stay,  for  grief  and  shame  it  were 

That  tears  should  fall  so  fast  from  eyes  so  fair, 

And  feet  that  scarcely  bend  the  meadow  flowers 

Linger  so  long  upon  the  chilling  stone. 

SONNET. 

SILENCE  and  Sleep,  and  Midnight's  softest  gloom 
Consoling  friends  of  fast  declining  years  ; 
Benign  assuagers  of  unfruitful  tears  ; 
Soft-footed  heralds  of  the  wished-for  tomb ! 
Go  to  your  master  Death,  the   Monarch  whom 
Ye  serve  ;   whose  majesty  your  grace  endears  ; 
And  in  the  awful  hollows  of  his  ears 
Murmur,  for  ever  murmur,  "  Come,  oh !    come." 
Virginal  rites  have  I  performed  full  long, 
And  all  observance  worthy  of  a  bride  : 


68  A    FAREWELL    TO   NAPLES. 

Then  wherefore,  Death,  dost  thou  to  me  this  wrong, 
So  long  estranged  to  linger  from  my  side  ? 
Am  I  not  thine  ?     Oh !    breathe  upon  my  eyes 
A  gentle  answer,  Death,  from  thine  Elysian  skies  ! 


A     FAREWELL     TO    NAPLES. 


A  GLORIOUS  amphitheatre  whose  girth 
Exceeds  three-fold  th'  horizons  of  the  north, 
Mixing  our  pleasure  in  a  goblet  wide, 
With  hard,  firm  rim  through  clear  air  far-descried ; 
Illumined  mountains,  on  whose  heavenly  slopes 
Quick,  busy  shades  rehearse,  while  Phoebus  drops, 
Dramatic  parts  in  scenic  mysteries  ; 
Far-shadowing  islands,  and  exulting  seas, 
With  cities  girt,  that  catch,  till  day  is  done, 
Successive  glances  from  the  circling  sun, 
And  cast  a  snowy  gleam  across  the  blue  ; 
A  gulf  that,  to  its  lake-like  softness  true, 
Reveres  the  stillness  of  the  Syren's  cell, 
Yet  knows  the  ocean's  roll,  and  loves  it  well ; 
A  gulf  where  Zephyr  oft,  with  noontide  heat 
Oppressed,  descends  to  bathe  his  sacred  feet, 
And,  at  the  first  cold  touch  at  once  reviving, 
Sinks  to  the  wings  in  joy,  before  him  driving 
A  feathery  foam  into  the  lemon  groves  ; 
Evasive,  zone-like  sands  and  secret  coves; 


A    FAREWELL    TO    NAPLES.  69 

Translucent  waves  that,  heaved  with  motion  slow 
On  fanes  submerged  a  brighter  gleam  bestow  ; 
Fair  hamlets,  streets  with  odorous  myrtles  spread, 
Bruised  by  processions  grave  with  soundless  tread, 
That  leave  (the  Duomo  entered)  on  the  mind 
A  pomp  confused,  and  music  on  the  wind  ; 
Smooth,  mounded  banks  like  inland  coasts  and  capes, 
That  take  from  seas  extinct  their  sinuous  shapes, 
And  girdle  plains  whose  growths,  fire-fed  below, 
Without  the  bending  laborer  burst  and  blow ; 
A  light  Olympian  and  an  air  divine — 
Naples !   if  these  are  blessings,  they  are  thine. 


ii. 

Thy  sands  we  paced  in  sunlight  and  soft  gloom ; 
From  Tasso's  birthplace  roamed  to  Virgil's  tomb  : 
Baia!    thy  haunts  we  trod,  and  glimmering  caves 
Whose  ambushed  ardors  pant  o'er  vine-decked  waves 
Thy  cliffs  we  coasted,  loitered  in  thy  creeks, 
O  shaggy  island*  with  the  five  grey  peaks ! 
Explored  thy  grotto,  scaled  thy  fortress,  where 
Thy  dark-eyed  maids  trip  down  the  rocky  stair, 
With  glance  cast  backward,  laugh  of  playful  scorn, 
And  cheek  carnationed  with  the  lights  of  morn. 
The  hills  Lactarean  lodged  us  in  their  breast : 
Shadowy  Sorrento  to  her  spicy  nest 
Called  us  from  far  with  gales  embalmed,  yet  pure  ; 
Her  orange  brakes  we  pierced,  and  ranged  her  rifts 
obscure. 

*  Capri. 


7°  A    FAREWELL    TO   NAPLES. 

Breathless  along  Pompeii's  streets  we  strayed 
By  songless  fount,  mosaic  undecayed, 
Voluptuous  tomb,  still  forum,  painted  hall, 
Where  wreathed  Bacchantes  float  on  every  wall, 
Where  Ariadne,  by  the  purple  deep, 
Hears  not  those  panting  sails,  but  smiles  in  sleep, 
Where  yet  Silenus  grasps  the  woodland  cup, 
And  buried  Pleasure  from  its  grave  looks  up. 
Lastly,  the  great  Vesuvian  steep  we  clomb  ; 
Then,  Naples  !  made  once  more  with  thee  our  home. 
We  leave  thee  now :  but  first,  with  just  review, 
We  cast  the  account,  and  strike  the  balance  true  : 
And  thus,  as  forth  we  fare,  we  take  our  last  adieu. 


in. 

From  her  whom  genius  never  yet  inspired, 
Nor  virtue  raised,  nor  pulse  heroic  fired ; 
From  her  who,  in  the  grand  historic  page, 
Maintains  one  barren  blank  from  age  to  age  ; 
From  her,  with  insect  life  and  insect  buzz, 
Who,  evermore  unresting,  nothing  does  ; 
From  her  who,  with  the  future  and  the  past 
No  commerce  holds,  no  structure  rears  to  last ; 
From  streets  where  spies  and  jesters,  side  by  side, 
Range  the  rank  markets,  and  their  gains  divide  ; 
Where  Faith  in  Art,  and  Art  in  sense  is  lost, 
And  toys  and  gewgaws  form  a  nation's  boast  ; 
Where  Passion,  from  Affection's  bond  cut  loose, 
Revels  in  orgies  of  its  own  abuse ; 
And  Appetite,  from  Passion's  portals  thrust, 
Creeps  on  its  belly  to  its  grave  of  dust ; 


PSYCHE.  7 1 

Where  Vice  her  mask  disdains,  where  Fraud  is  loud, 
And  naught  but  Wisdom  dumb  and  Justice  cowed  ; — 
Lastly,  from  her  who  planted  here  unawed, 
'Mid  heaven-topped  hills,  and  waters  bright  and  broad, 
From  these  but  nerves  more  swift  to  err  hath  gained, 
And  the  dread  stamp  of  sanctities  profaned, 
And,  girt  not  less  with  ruin,  lives  to  show 
That  worse  than  wasted  weal  is  wasted  woe, — 
We   part,    forth  issuing  through  her  closing  gate 
With  unreverting  faces,  not  ingrate. 
1844. 


PSYCHE, 

OR,   AN   OLD   POET'S   LOVE, 


O  ORIENT  Isle  that  gave  her  birth ! 

O  Delos  of  a  holier  sea ! 
O  casket  of  uncounted  worth  ! 

How  dear  thou  art  to  Love  and  me  ! 

Thy  whispering  woods  in  some  soft  dell 
Now  charmed,  now  broke  the  Infant's  rest ; 

Thy  vales  the  wild-flower  cherished  well 
Predestined  for  the  Virgin's  breast. 

May  airs  salubrious,  gusts  of  balm, 
On  all  thy  shores  incumbent,  blow 

Thy  billow  from  the  glassy  calm, 

And  fringe  thy  myrtles  with  sea-sno'w  ! 


72  PSYCHE. 

My  Psyche's  lips  thy  zephyrs  breathe  ; 

My  Psyche's  feet  thy  pastures  tread  :- 
O  Isle  of  isles  around  me  wreathe 

Thine  asphodels  when  I  am  dead  ! 


ii. 


How  blue  were  Ariadne's  eyes 
When,  from  the  sea's  horizon  line, 

At  eve  she  raised  them  on  the  skies ; 
My  Psyche,  bluer  far  are  thine. 


How  pallid,  snatched  from  falling  flowers, 
The  cheek  averse  of  Proserpine, 

Unshadowed  yet  by  Stygian  bowers; 
My  Psyche,  paler  far  is  thine. 


Yet  thee  no  lover  e'er  forsook  ; 

No  tyrant  urged  with  love  unkind  : 
Thy  joy  the  ungentle  cannot  brook  ; 

Thy  light  would  strike  the  unworthy  blind. 

A  golden  flame  invests  thy  tresses  : 
An  azure  flame  invests  thine  eyes  : 

And  well  that  wingless  form  expresses 
Communion  with  relinquished  skies. 


PSYCHE.  73 

Forbear,  O  breezes  of  the  West, 
To  waft  her  to  her  native  bourne  ; 

For  heavenly,  by  her  feet  impressed, 
Becomes  our  ancient  earth  outworn. 

On  Psyche's  life  our  beings  hang : 
In  Psyche  life  and  love  are  one: — 

My  Psyche  glanced  at  me  and  sang, 
"  Perhaps  to-morrow  I  am  gone  !" 


in. 


PSYCHE'S  BATH. 

O  stream  beloved  !  O  stream  unknown  ! 

In  which  my  love  has  bathed  ! 
Be  still  thy  fount  unvexed  with  floods, 

Thy  marge  by  heats  unscathed. 

How  oft  her  white  hand  tempted  thine  ! 

How  oft,  by  fears  delayed, 
Ere  yet  her  light  had  filled  thy  depth, 

With  thee  her  shadow  played  ! 

Thy  purity  encompassed  hers  ; 

Thy  crystal  cased  my  pearl ; 
Of  founts,  the  fairest  fount  embraced 

Of  girls,  the  loveliest  girl. 


7  1-  PSYCHE. 

May  still  thy  lilies  round  thee  wave, 

As  shaken  by  a  sigh  ! 
Thy  violets,  blooming  where  she  gazed, 

Bloom  first  and  latest  die  ! 

May  better  bards,  when  I  am  gone, 
Like  birds  salute  thy  bower  ; 

And  each  that  sings  thee  grow  in  heart 
A  virgin  from  that  hour. 


IV. 

PSYCHE'S  STUDY. 

The  low  sun  smote  the  topmost  rocks, 
Ascending  o'er  the  eastern  sea : 

Backward  my  Psyche  waved  her  locks  ; 
And  held  her  book  upon  her  knee. 

No  brake  was  near,  no  flower,  no  bird, 
No  music  but  the  ocean  wave, 

That  with  complacent  murmur  stirred 
The  echoes  of  a  neighboring  cave. 

Absorbed  my  Psyche  sat,  her  face 
Reflecting  Plato's  sun-like  soul  ; 

And  seemed  in  every  word  to  trace 
The  pent-up  spirit  of  the  whole. 


PSYCHE.  75 

Absorbed  she  sat  in  breathless  mood, 

Unmoved  as  kneeler  at  a  shrine, 
Save  one  slight  finger  that  pursued 

The  meaning  on  from  line  to  line. 

As  some  white  flower  in  forest  nook 
Bends  o'er  its  own  face  in  a  well, 

So  seemed  the  virgin  in  that  book 
Her  soul,  unread  before,  to  spell. 

Sudden,  a  crimson  butterfly 

On  that  illumined  page  alit : — 
My  Psyche  flung  the  volume  by, 

And  sister-like,  gave  chase  to  it ! 


v. 


PSYCHE   SINGING. 

Between  the  green  hill  and  the  cloud 
*   The  skylark  loosed  his  silver  chain 
Of  rapturous  music,  clear  and  loud — 
My  Psyche  answered  back  the  strain. 

A  glory  raced  along  the  sky  ; 

She  sang,  and  all  dark  things  grew  plain  ; 
Hope,  starlike,  shone  ;  and  Memory 

Flashed  like  a  cypress  gemmed  with  rain. 


PSYCHE. 

The  noble  warfare  recommenced ; 

Once  more  that  skylark's  challenge  rang 
Once  more  with  him  my  Psyche  fenced; 

At  last  the  twain  commingled  sang. 

Then  first  I  learned  the  skylark's  lore  ; 

Then  first  the  words  he  sang  I  knew  : 
My  soul  with  transport  flooded  o'er 

As  breeze-borne  gossamer  with  dew. 


VI. 


"  Can  Love  be  just  ?  can  Hope  be  wise  ? 

Can  Youth  renew  his  honors  dead  ?" 
On  me  my  Psyche  turned  her  eyes  ; 
And  all  my  great  resolves  were  fled. 

Psyche,  I  said,  when  thou  art  nigh 
Transpicuous  grow  the  mists  of  years  : 

I  cannot  ever  wholly  die 

If  on  my  grave  should  drop  thy  tears. 

Nor  thine  a  part  in  mortal  hours  : 
Thy  flower  nor  Autumn  knows,  nor  May 

Thou  bendest  from  sidereal  bowers 
A  shape  supernal,  bright  for  aye. 


PSYCHE.  77 

Though  I  be  nothing,  yet  the  best 
To  thee  no  gift  of  price  could  give  : — 

Fall  then  in  radiance  on  my  breast 
And  in  thy  blessing  bid  me  live  ! 


VII. 


Pure  lip  coralline,  slightly  stirred ; 

Thus  stir  ;   but  speak  not !     Love  can  see 
On  you  the  syllables  unheard 

Which  are  his  only  melody. 

Pure,  drooping  lids,  dark  lashes  wet 
With  that  unhoped-for,  trembling  tear, 

Thus  droop,  thus  meet ;   nor  give  me  yet 
The  eyes  that  I  desire,  yet  fear. 

Hands  lightly  clasped  on  meekest  knee  ; 

All-beauteous  head,  as  by  a  spell 
Bent  forward  ;   loveliest  form,  to  me 

A  lovely  soul  made  visible ; 

Speak  not  !   move  not !      More  tender  grows 
The  heart,  long  musing.      Night  may  plead, 

Perhaps,  my  part,  and,  at  its  close, 
The  morning  bring  me  light  indeed. 


PSYCHE. 


VIII. 

She  leaves  us  :    many  a  gentler  breast 
Will  mourn  our  common  loss  like  me  : 

The  babe  her  hands,  her  voice  caressed, 
The  lamb  that  couched  beside  her  knee.    " 

The  touch  thou  lov'st — the  robe's  far  gleam— 
Thou  shalt  not  find,  thou  dark-eyed  fawn  ! 

Thy  light  is  lost,  exultant  stream  : 

Dim  woods,  your  sweetness  is  withdrawn. 

Descend,  dark  heavens,  and  flood  with  rain 
Their  crimson  roofs  ;   their  silence  rout : 

Their  vapor-laden  branches  strain  ; 
And  force  the  smothered  sadness  out ! 

That  so  the  ascended  moon,  when  breaks 
The  cloud,  may  light  once  more  a  scene 

Fair  as  some  cheek  that  suffering  makes 
Only  more  tearfully  serene  : — 

That  so  the  vale  she  loved  may  look 

Calm  as  some  cloister  roofed  with  snows, 

Wherein,  unseen,  in  shadowy  nook, ' 
A  buried  Vestal  finds  repose. 


PSYCHE.  79 

IX. 

What  art  thou  ?     If  them  livest,  I  know 
That  thou  art  good,  and  true,  and  fair  : 
But  there  are  dreams  that  whisper  low, 
"  Thou  dream'st !     thy  passion  paints  the  air. 

"  Grief  sat  upon  thy  heart  for  years  :— ' 
That  heart,  by  light  bewildered  now, 
All  that  it  missed  beholds  through  tears 
Throned  on  a  single,  beaming  brow. 

"  Or  else  thy  Fancy,  tired  of  dust, 

Unsphered  a  Spirit.      Self-enthralled, 
It  worships  now,  because  it  must, 
An  Idol  pride  at  first  enstalled. 

"  Or  else  the  pathos  of  the  past 

Above  thy  present  moves  in  power ; 
And  o'er  thy  dusty  day  hath  cast 
This  dew-drop  from  its  matin  hour. 

"In  her  thou  lov'st  the  times  gone  by, 

In  her  the  joys  possessed,  not  missed  : 
It  was  not  Hope,  but  Memory 
Thy  dreaming  lids  that  bent  and  kissed ! 

"In  her  the  dewy  lawns  forlorn 

Thou  lov'st  ;    the  gleams  along  them  flung  ; 
The  witcheries  of  the  awakening  morn  ; 
The  echo  of  its  latest  song. 


80  THE   ASCENT  OF   THE  APENNINES. 

"  Thou  tread'st  once  more  Castalia's  brink  : 

Far  down,  thy  youth  finds  rest  from  trouble  ; 
And  thou  that  saw'st  it  slowly  sink 
Dost  watch  its  latest  breaking  bubble." 


ODE. 

THE    ASCENT    OF    THE    APENNINES. 


I  MOVE  through  a  land  like  a  land  of  dream, 
Where  the  things  that  are,  and  that  shall  be,  seem 
Wov'n  into  one  by  a  hand  of  air, 
And  the  Good  looks  piercingly  down   through   the 

Fair! 
No  form  material  is  here  unmated, 

Here  blows  no  bud,  no  scent  can  rise, 
No  song  ring  forth,  unconsecrated 

To  a  meaning  or  model  in  Paradise  ! 
Fallen,  like  man,  is  elsewhere  the  earth  ; 
Human,  at  best,  in  her  sadness  and  mirth  ; 
Or  if  she  aspires  after  something  greater, 

Lifting  her  hands  from  her  native  dust, 

In  God  she  beholds  but  the  wise,  the  just ; 
The  Saviour  she  sees  not  in  the  Creator  : 
But  here,  like  children  of  saints  who  learn 

The  things  above  ere  the  things  below, 
Who  choirs  angelic  in  clouds  discern 

Ere   the  butterfly's  wing  from  the   moth's   they 
know, 


THE  ASCENT  OF  THE  APENNINES.  8 1 

True  Nature  as  ashes  all  beauty  reckons 
That  claims  not  hereafter  some  happier  birth 

She  calls  from  the  height  to  the  depth  ;  she  beckons 

From  the  nomad  waste  to  a  heavenly  hearth  : 
"  The  curse  is  cancelled,"  she  cries  ;  "  thou  dreamer, 

Earth  felt  the  tread  of  the  great  Redeemer !" 


ii. 

Ye  who  ascend  with  reverent  foot 

The  warm  vale's  rocky  stairs, 
Though  lip  be  mute,  in  heart  salute 

With  praises  and  with  prayers 
The  noble  hands,  now  dust,  that  reared 

Long  ages  since  on  crag  or  sward 
Those  Stations  from  their  cells  revered 

Still  preaching  of  the  Lord  ! 
Ah  !   unseductive  here  the  breath 

Of  the   vine-bud    that    blows   in   the  breast  of 

morn  ; 
That  orange  bower,  yon  jasmine  wreath, 

Hide  not  the  crown  of  thorn  ! 
Here  none  can  bless  the  spring,  and  drink 

The  waters  from  the  dark  that  burst, 
Nor  see  the  sponge  and  the  reed,  and  think 

Of  the  Three  Hours'  unquenched  thirst. 
The  Tender,  the  Beauteous  receives  its  comment 

From  a  truth  transcendent,  a  life  divine  ; 
And  the  coin  flung  loose  of  the  passing  moment 

Is  stamped  with  Eternity's  sign  ! 


82  THE  ASCENT  OF  THE  APENNINES. 


III. 

Alas  for  the  wilder'd  days  of  yore 

When  Nature  lay  vassal  to  pagan  lore  ! 

Baia — what  was  she  ?     A  sorceress  still 

To  brute  transforming  the  human  will  ! 

Nor  pine  could  whisper,  nor  breeze  could  move 

But  a  breath  infected  ran  o'er  the  blood 
Like  gales  that  whiten  the  aspen  grove 

Or  gusts  that  darken  the  flood. 
Along  the  ocean's  gleaming  level 
The  beauteous  base  ones  held  their  revel, 
Dances  on  the  sea-sand  knitting, 

With  shouts  the  sleeping  shepherd  scaring, 
Like  Oreads  o'er  the  hill-side  flitting, 

Like  Maenads  thyrsus-bearing. 
The  Siren  sang  from  the  moonlit  bay, 

The  Siren  sang  from  the  redd'ning  lawn, 
Until  in  the  crystal  cup  of  day 

Lay  melted  the  pearl  of  dawn. 
Unspiritual  intelligence 
Changed  Nature's  fane  to  a  hall  of  sense, 
That  rings  with  the  upstart  spoiler's  jest, 
And  the  beakers  clash'd  by  the  drunken  guest  ! 


IV. 


Hark  to  that  convent  bell ! 
False  pagan  world,  farewell ; 
From  cliff  to  cliff  the  challenge  vaults  rebounded  ! 


THE  ASCENT  OF  THE  APENNINES.  83 

Echo,  her  wanderings  done, 

Heart-peace  at  last  hath  won, 
The  rest  of  love  on  Faith  not  Fancy  founded  ; 
"  By  the  parch'd  fountain  let  the  pale  flower  die," 
She  sings,  "True  love,  true  joy,  triumphant  reign 
on  high!" 


The  plains  recede  ;  the  olives  dwindle  ; 

The  chestnut  slopes  fall  far  behind ; 
The  skirts  of  the  billowy  pine-woods  kindle 

In  the  evening  lights  and  wind. 
Not  here  we  sigh  for  the  Alpine  glory 

Of  peak  primeval  and  death-pale  snow ; 
For  the  cold  grey  green,  and  the  glacier  hoary, 

Or  blue  caves  that  yawn  below. 
The  landscape  here  is  mature  and  mellow  ; 
.  Fruit-like,  not  flower-like  : — hills  embrown'd  ; 
Ridges  of  purple  and  ledges  of  yellow 

From  red  stream  to  rock  church-crown'd  : 
'Tis  a  region  of  mystery,  hush'd  and  sainted : 

Serene  as  the  visions  of  artists  old 
When  the  thoughts  of  Dante  his  Giotto  painted  : — 

The  summit  is  reach'd  !     Behold  ! 
Like  a  sky  condensed  lies  the  lake  far  down  ; 

Its  curves  like  the  orbit  of  some  fair  planet ; 
A  fire-wreath  falls  on  the  cliffs  that  frown 

Above  it — dark  walls  of  granite  ; 
The  hill-sides  with  homesteads  and  hamlets  glow  ; 
With  snowy  villages  zoned  below: 


84  THE  ASCENT  OF   THE  APENNINES. 

Down  drops  by  the  island's  woody  shores 
The  banner'd  barge  with  the  rhythmic  oars. 
No  solitude  here,  no  desert  cheerless 

Is  needed  pure  thoughts  or  hearts  to  guard  ; 
'Tis  a  populous  solitude,  festal,  fearless, 

For  men  of  good-will  prepared. 
The  hermit  may  hide  in  the  wood,  but  o'er  it 

All  day  the  happy  chimes  are  rolled : 
The  black  crag  wooes  the  cloud,  but  before  it 

The  procession  winds  on  white-stoled. 
Farewell,  O  Nature  !     None  meets  thee  here 
But  his  heart  goes  up  to  a  happier  sphere  ! 
The  radiance  around  him  spread  forgetting 

That  City  he  sees  on  whose  golden  walls 
No  light  of  a  rising  sun,  or  setting, 

Of  moon  or  of  planet  falls, 
For  the  Lamb  alone  is  the  light  thereof — 
The  City  of  Truth,  the  Kingdom  of  Love  ! 


VI. 


There  shall  the  features  worn  and  wasted 

Let  fall  the  sullen  mask  of  years : 
There  shall  that  fruit  at  last  be  tasted 

Whose  seed  was  sown  in  tears  : 
There  shall  that  amaranth  bloom  for  ever 

Whose  blighted  blossom  droop'd  erewhile 

In  this  dim  valley  of  exile, 
And  by  the  Babylonian  river. 
The  loved  and  lost  once  more  shall  meet  us  ; 
Joys  that  never  were  ours  shall  greet  us ; 


THE  ASCENT  OF  THE  APENNINES.  85 

Delights  for  the  love  of  the  Cross  foregone 
Fullfaced  salute  us,  ashamed  of  none. 
Heroes  unnamed  the  storm  that  weathered 

There  shall  sceptred  stand  and  crown'd  ; 
Apostles  the  wilder'd  flocks  that  gather'd 

Sit  with  the  nations  round. 
There,  heavenly  sweets  from  the  earthly  bitter 

Shall  rise  like  odor  from  herbs  down-trod ; 
There,  tears  of  the  past  like  gems  shall  glitter 

On  the  trees  that  gladden  the  mount  of  God. 
The  deeds  of  the  righteous,  on  eartli  despised, 
By  the  lightning  of  God  immortalized 
Shall  crown  like  statues  the  walls  sublime 

Of  all  the  illuminate,  mystic  City, 
Memorial  emblems  that  conquer  Time, 

Yet  tell  his  tale.     That  Pity 
Which  gave  the  lost  one  strength  to  speak, 

That  Love  in  guise  angelic  stooping 
O'er  the  grey  old  head,  or  the  furrow'd  cheek, 

Or  the  neck  depress'd  and  drooping, 
Shall  live  for  ever,  emboss'd  or  graven 
On  the  chalcedon  gates  and  the  streets  pearl-paven  : 
The  Thoughts  of  the  just,  at  a  flash  transferr'd 
From  the  wastes  of  earth  to  the  courts  of  the  Word, 
The  hopes  abortive,  the  frustrate  schemes, 

Shall  lack  not  a  place  in  the  wond'rous  session  ; 
The  prayers  of  the  Saints,  their  griefs,  their  dreams, 

Shall  be  manifest  there  in  vision  ; 
For  they  live  in  the  Mind  Divine,  their  mould, 

That  Mind  Divine  the  unclouded  mirror 
Wherein  the  glorified  Spirits  behold 

All  worlds,  undimm'd  by  error. 


86  THE  ASCENT  OF  THE  APENNINES. 


VII. 


Fling  fire  on  the  earth,  O   God, 

Consuming  all  things  base  ! 
Fling  fire  upon  man,  his  soul  and  his  blood, 

The  fire  of  Thy  Love  and  Grace  : 
That  his  heart  once  more  to  its  natal  place 
Like  a  bondsman  freed  may  rise, 
Ascending  for  ever  before  Thy  face 

From  the  altar  of  Sacrifice  ! 

x  And  thou,  Love's  comrade,   Hope, 
That  giv'st  to  Wisdom  strength,  to  Virtue  scope, 

That  giv'st  to  man  and  nation 
The  on-rushing  plumes  of  spiritual  aspiration, 
Van-courier  of  the   ages,  Faith's  strong  guide, 
That  still  the  attain'd  foregoest  for  the  descried  : — 
On,  Seraph,  on,  through  night  and  tempest  wing 
ing ! 

On  heavenward,  on,  across  the  void,  vast  hollow  ! 
And  be  it  ours,  to  thy  wide  skirts  close  clinging 
Blindly,  like  babes,  thy  conquering  flight  to  fol 
low. 

What  though  the  storm  of  Time  roar  on  beside  us  ? 
Though  this  world  mock  or  chide  us  ? 
We  shall  not  faint  or  fail  until  at  last 
The  eternal  shore  is  reach'd,  all  danger  past ! 

May,  1859. 


GLA  UC&.  87 

GLAUCE. 

I  LOVE  you,  pretty  maid,  for  you  are  young : 
I  love  you,  pretty  maid,  for  you  are  fair : 
I  love  you,  pretty  maid,  for  you  love  me. 


They  tell  me  that,  a  babe,  smiling  you  gazed 
Upon  the  stars,  with  open,  asking  eyes, 
And  tremulous  lips  apart.     Erelong,  self-taught, 
You  found  for  every  star  and  every  flower 
Legends  and  names  and  fables  sweet  and  new. 


O  that  when  far  away  I  still  might  see  thee  ! 

How  oft,  when  wearied  with  the  din  of  life 

On  thee  my  eyes  would  rest,  thy  Grecian  heavens 

Brightening  that  orbed  brow  ! — 

Hesper  should  shine  upon  thee — lamp  of  Love, 

Beneath  whose  radiance  thou  wert  born.    O  Hesper ! 

Thee  will  I  love  and  reverence  evermore  ! 


Bind  up  that  shining  hair  into  a  knot 
And  let  me  see  that  polished  neck  of  thine 
Uprising  from  the  bed  snow-soft,  snow-white 
In  which  it  rests  so  gracefully  !     What  God 
Hath  drawn  upon  thy  forehead's  ivory  plane 
Those  two  clear  streaks  of  sweet  and  glistening  black 
Lifted  in  earnest  mirth  or  lovely  awe? 
Open  those  Pleiad  eyes,  liquid  and  tender, 


88  GLA  UCE. 

And  let  me  lose  myself  among  their  depths  ! 

Caress  me  with  thine  infant  hands,  and  tell  me 

Old  tales  divine  that  love  makes  ever  new 

Of  Gods  and  men  entoiled  in  flowery  nets, 

Of  heroes  sighing  all  their  youth  away, 

And  Troy,  death-sentenced  by  those  Argive  eyes. 

Come  forth,  dear  maid,  the  day  is  calm  and  cool, 

And  bright  though  sunless.     Like  a  long  green  scarf, 

The  tall  Pines  crowning  yon  grey  promontory 

In  distant  ether  hang,  and  cut  the  sea. 

But  lovers  better  love  the  dell,  for  there 

Each  is  the  other's  world. — How  indolently 

The  tops  of  those  pale  poplars  bend  and  sway 

Over  the  violet-braided  river-brim  ! 

Whence  comes  their  motion,  for  no  wind  is  heard, 

And  the  long  grasses  move  not,  nor  the  reeds  ? 

Here  we  will  sit,  and  watch  the  rushes  lying 

Like  locks,  along  the  leaden-colored  stream 

Far  off — and  thou,  O  child,  shalt  talk  to  me 

Of  Naiads  and  their  loves.     A  blissful  life 

They  lead  who  live  beneath  the  flowing  waters. 

They  cherish  calm,  and  think  the  sea-weeds  fair  : 

They  love  each  other's  beauty  ;  love  to  stand 

Among  the  lilies,  holding  back  their  tresses 

And  listening,  with  their  gentle  cheek  reclined 

Upon  the  flood,  to  some  far  melody 

Of  Pan  or  shepherd  piping  in  lone  woods 

Until  the  unconscious  tears  run  down  their  face. 

Mild  are  their  loves,  nor  burdensome  their  thoughts— 

And  would  that  such  a  life  were  mine  and  thine  ! 


IONE.  89 

IONE. 

IOXE,  fifteen  years  have  o'er  you  passed, 
And,  taking  nothing  from  you  in  their  flight, 
Have  given  you  much.     You  look  like  one  for  whom 
The  day  has  morning  only,  time  but  Spring. 
Your  eyes  are  large  and  calm,  your  lips  serene, 
As  if  no  Winter  with  your  dreams  commingled, 
You  that  dream  always,  or  that  never  dream  ! 

Dear  maid,  you  should  have  been  a  shepherdess  — 
But  no  :  ill-tended  then  your  flocks  had  strayed. 
Young  fawns  you  should  have  led  ;  such  fawns  as  once 
The  quivered  Queen  had  spared  to  startle  !     Then 
Within  your  hand  a  willow  wand,  your  brow 
Wreathed  with  red  roses  dabbled  in  warm  rains, 
How  sweetly,  with  half-serious  countenance, 
Through  the  green  alleys  had  you  ta'en  your  way  ! 
And  they,  your  spotted  train,  how  happily 
Would  they  have  gambolled  by  you  —  happiest  she 
The  milk-white  creature  in  the  silver  chain  ! 


lay  the  tapestry  down  :  come  forth  — 
No  golden  ringlet  shall  you  add  this  morn 
To  bright  Apollo  :  and  poor  Daphne  there  ! 
Without  her  verdant  branches  she  must  rest 
Another  day  —  a  cruel  tale,  sweet  girl! 

You  will  not  !     Then  farewell  our  loves  for  ever  ! 
We  are  too  far  unlike  :  not  Cyclops  more 


9°  ION&. 

Unlike  that  Galatea  whom  he  courted. 

I  love  the  loud-resounding  sea  divine  ; 

I  love  the  wintry  sunset,  and  the  stress 

Inexorable  of  wide-wasting  storms  ; 

I  love  the  waste  of  foam-washed  promontories ; 

Thunder,  and  all  portentous  change  that  makes 

The  mind  of  mortals  like  to  suns  eclipsed 

Waning  in  icy  terrors.     These  to  you 

Are  nothing.     On  the  ivied  banks  you  lie 

In  deep  green  valleys  grey  with  noontide  dew. 

There  bathe  your  feet  in  bubbling  springs,  your  hands 

Playing  with  the  moist  pansies  near  your  face. 


These  bowers  are  musical  with  nightingales 

Morning  and  noon  and  night.     Among  these  rocks 

A  lovely  life  is  that  you  lead ;  but  I 

Will  make  it  lovelier  with  some  pretty  gift 

If  you  are  constant  to  me  !     Constant  never 

Was    Nymph   or    Nereid  :  —  like    the    waves     they 

change  ; — 

O  Nymph  so  change  not  thou  !     A  boat  I'll  make 
Scooped  from  a  pine :  yourself  shall  learn  to  row  it ; 
Swifter  than  winds  or  sounds  can  fleet  ;  or  else 
Your  scarf  shall  be  the  sail,  and  you  shall  glide, 
While  the  stars  drop  their  light  upon  the  bay, 
On  like  a  bird  between  the  double  heaven ! 
Are  these  but  trivial  joys  ?     Ah  me  !  fresh  leaves 
Gladden  the  forests  ;  but  no  second  life 
Invests  our  branches — feathers  new  make  bright 


LYCIUS.  91 

The  birds  ;  but  when  our  affluent  locks  desert  us, 

No    Spring  restores   them.      Dried-up   streams   once 

more 

The  laughing  Nymphs  replenish  ;    but  man's  life, 
By  fate  drawn  down  and  smothered  in  the  sands, 
Never  looks  up.     Alas,  my  sweet  lonfe, 
Alcaeus  also  loved  ;   but  in  his  arms 
Finds  rest  no  more  the  song-full  Lesbian  maid : 
The  indignant  hand  attesting  Gods  and  men 
Achilles  lifts  no  more  :    to  dust  is  turned 
His  harp  that  glittered  through  the  wild  sea  spray, 
Though  the  black  wave  falls  yet  on  I  lion's  shore. 
All  things  must  die — the  Songs  themselves,  except 
The  devout  hymn  of  grateful  love  ;  or  hers, 
The  wild  swan's,  chaunting  her  death  melody. 


LYCIUS. 

LYCIUS  !   the  female  race  is  all  the  same ! 
All  variable,  as  the  Poets  tell  us  ; 
Mad    through    caprice  —  half  way    'twixt    men    and 
children. 


Acasta,  mildest  lake  of  all  our  maids, 
Colder  and  calmer  than  a  sacred  well, 
Is  now  more  changed  than  Spring  has  changed  these 

thickets  : 
Hers  is  the  fault,  not  mine.     Yourself  shall  judge. 


92  LYCJUS. 

From  Epidaurus,  where  from  three  long  days 
With  Nicias  I  had  stayed,  honoring  the  God, 
If  strength  might  thus  mine  aged  Sire  renerve, 
Last  evening  we  returned.     The  way  was  dull 
And  vexed  with  mountains  :    tired  ere  long  was  I 
From  warding  off  the  oleander  boughs 
Which,  as  my  comrade  o'er  the  stream's  dry  bed 
Pushed  on,  closed  backward  on  my  mule  and  me. 
The  flies  maintained  a  melody  unblest ; 
While  Nicias,  of  his  wreath  Nemean  proud, 
Sang  of  the  Satyrs  and  the  Nymphs  all  day 
Like  one  by  Esculapius  fever-smitten. 
Arrived  at  eve,  we  bathed  ;   and  drank,  and  ate 
Of  figs  and  olives  till  our  souls  exulted. 
Lastly  we  slept  like  gods.     When  morning  shone, 
So  filled  was  I  with  weariness  and  sleep 
That  as  a  log  till  noon  I  lay  ;    then  rose, 
And    in    the    bath-room    sat.       While    there    I    lan 
guished 

Reading  that  old,  divine  and  holy  tale 
Of  sad  Ismenfe  and  AntigonS, 
Two  warm  soft  hands  flung  suddenly  around  me 
Closed    both    my  eyes  ;    and    a    clear,    shrill,   sweet 

laughter 

Told  me  that  she  it  was,  Acasta's  self, 
That   brake   upon   my   dreams.     "  What    would    you 

child  ?" 

"  Child,  child,"  Acasta  cried  !   "  I  am  no  child— 
You  do  me  wrong  in  calling  me  a  child  ! 
Come  with  me  to  the  willowy  river's  brim  : 
There  read,  if  you  must  read." 


LYCIUS.  93 

Her  eyes  not  less 

Than  hands  uplifted  me,  and  forth  we  strayed. 
O'er  all  the  Argolic  plain  Apollo's  shafts 
So  fiercely  fell,  me  thought  the  least  had  slain 
A  second  Python.     From  that  theatre 
Hewn  in  the  rock  the  Argive  tumult  rolled  ! 
Before  the  fane  of  Juno  seven  vast  oxen 
Lowed  loud,  denouncing  Heaven  ere  yet  they  fell : 
While  from  the  hill-girt  meadows  rose  a  scent 
So  rich,  the  salt  sea  odors  vainly  strove 
To  pierce  those  fumes  it  curled  about  my  brain, 
And  sting  the  nimbler  spirits.     Nodding  I  watched 
The  pale  herbs  from  the  parched  bank  that  trailed 
Bathing  delighted  in  voluptuous  cold, 
And  scarcely  swayed  by  that  slow  winding  stream. 
I  heard  a  sigh — I  asked  not  whence  it  came. 
At  last  a  breeze  went  by,  to  glossy  waves 
Rippling  the  steely  flood  :    I  noted  then 
The  reflex  of  the  poplar  stem  thereon 
Curled  into  spiral  wreaths,  and  toward  me  darting 
Like  a  long,  shining  water-snake  :    I  laughed 
To  see  its  restlessness.     Acasta  cried, 
"  Read — if  you  will  not  speak — or  look  at  me  !" 
Unconsciously  I  glanced  upon  the  page, 
Bent  o'er  it,  and  began  to  chaunt  that  chorus, 
"Favored  by  Love  are  they  that  love  not  deeply," 
•  When,    leaping     from    my   side,    she     snatched    the 

book, 

Into  the  river  dashed  it,  bounded  by, 
And,  no  word  spoken,  left  me  there  alone. 


94  LINES    WRITTEN  UNDER  DELPHI. 

Lycius  !    I  see  you  smile  ;   but  know  you  not 
Nothing  is  trifling  which  the  Muse  records, 
And  lovers  love  to  muse  on  ?     Let  the  Gods 
Act  as  to  them  seems  fitting.     Hermes  loved — 
Phoebus  loved  also — but  the  hearts  of  Gods 
Are  everlasting  like  the  suns  and  stars, 
Their  loves  as  transient  as  the  clouds.     For  me. 
A  peaceful  life  is  all  I  seek,  and  far 
Removed  from  cares  and  all  the  female  kind ! 


LINES    WRITTEN   UNDER    DELPHI. 


MY  goal  is  reached — homeward  henceforth  my  way. 

I  have  beheld  Earth's  glories.     Had  the  eyes 

Of  those  I  love  reposed  on  them  with  mine, 

No  future  wish  to  roam  beyond  the  range 

Of  one  green  pasture  circling  one  clear  lake 

Itself  by  one  soft  woodland  girt  around, 

Could  touch  this  heart.     My  pilgrimage  is  made. 


II. 

I  have  seen  Delphi :    I  no  more  shall  see  it. 
I  go  contented,  having  seen  it  once  ; 
Yet  here  awhile  remain,  prisoner  well-pleased 
Of  reboant  winds.     Within  this  mountain  cove 


LINES  WRITTEN  UNDER  DELPHI.  95 

Their  sound  alone  finds  entrance.     Lightly  the  waves 
(Rolled  from  the  outer  to  the  inner  bay) 
Dance  in  blue  silver  o'er  the  silver  sands  ; 
While,  like  a  chain-bound  antelope  by  some  child 
Mocked  oft  with  tempting  hand  and  fruit  upholden, 
Our  quick  caique  vaults  up  among  the  reeds, 
The  ripples  that  plunge  past  it  upward  sending 
O'er  the  grey  margin  matted  with  sea-pink 
Ripplings  of  light.     The  moon  is  veiled  ;   a  mile 
Below  the  mountain's  eastern  range  it  hangs  : 
Yon  gleam  is  but  its  reflex,  from  white  clouds 
Scattered  along  Parnassian  peaks  of  snow. 

in. 

I  see  but  waves  and  snows.     Memory  alone 
Fruition  hath  of  what  this  morn  was  mine  : 
O'er  many  a  beauteous  scene  at  once  she  broods, 
And  feeds  on  joys  without  confusion  blent 
Like  mingling  sounds  or  odors.     Now  she  rests 
On  that  serene  expanse  (the  confluence 
Of  three  long  vales)  in  sweetness  upward  heaved, 
Ample  and  rich  as  Juno's  breast  what  time 
The  Thunderer's  breath  in  sleep  moves  over  it  : 
Bathes  in  those  runnels  now,  that  raced  together 
This  morn  as  at  some  festival  of  streams, 
Through  arbutus  and  ilex,  wafting  each 
Upon  its  glassy  track  a  several  breeze, 
Each  with  its  tale  of  joy  or  playful  sadness. 
Fair  nymphs,  by  great  Apollo's  fall  untouched  ! 
Sing,  sing,  for  ever  !      When  did  golden  Phoebus 
Look  sad  one  moment  for  a  fair  nymph's  fall  ? 


9$  LINES  WRITTEN  UNDER  DELPHI. 

IV. 

A  still,  black  glen — below,  a  stream-like  copse 
Of  hoary  olives  ;   rocks  like  walls  beside, 
Never  by  Centaur  trod,  though  these  fresh  gales 
Give  man  the  Centaur's  strength  !     Again  I  mount, 
From  cliff  to  cliff,  from  height  to  height  ascending  ; 
Glitters  Castalia's  Fount  ;    I  see,  I  touch  it  ! 
That  Rift  once  more  I  reach,  the  Oracular  seat, 
Whose  arching  rocks  half  meet  in  air  suspense  ; 
'Twixt  them  is  one  blue   streak  of  heaven  ;    hard  by 
Dim  Temples  hollowed  in  the  stone,  for  rites 
Mysterious  shaped,  or  mansions  of  the  dead  : 
Released,  I  turn,  and  see,  far,  far  below, 
A  vale  so  rich  in  floral  garniture, 
And  odors  from  the  orange  and  the  sea, 
So  girt  with  white  peaks  flashing  from  sky  chasms, 
So  lighted  with  the  vast  blue  dome  of  Heaven, 
So  lulled  with  music  from  the  winds  and  waves, 
The  guest  of  Phoebus    claps  his  hands  and  shouts, 
"  There  is  but  one  such  spot  ;   from  Heaven  Apollo 
Beheld  ;— and  chose  it  for  his  earthly  shrine  !" 


Phoebus  Apollo  !   loftiest  shape  of  all 

That  glorified  the  range  of  Grecian  song, 

By  Poet  hymned  or  Shepherd  when  the  rocks 

Confessed  the  first  bright  impress  of  thy  feet  ; 

By  many  an  old  man  praised  when  Thracian  blasts 

Sang  loud,  and  pine-wood  stores  began  to  fail  ; 


LINES  WRITTEN  UNDER   DELPHI.  97 

Served  by  the  sick  man  searching  hill  and  plain 

For  herb  assuasive  ;   courted  by  sad  maids 

On  whose  pure  lips  thy  fancied  kiss  descended 

Softly  as  vernal  beam  on  primrose  cold  : 

By  Fortune's  troubled  Favorites  ofttime  sued 

For  dubious  answer,  then  when   Fate   malign, 

Beyond  the  horizon  of  high   Hopes  ascending, 

Her  long  fell  glance  had  cast  on  them — Apollo 

Who,  what  wert  thou  ?     Let  those  who  read  thy  tale 

In  clouded  chambers  of  the   North,  reply, 

"  An  empty  dream  !"  — bid  them  fling  far  the  scroll, 

The  dusty  parchment  fling  aside  for  ever, 

Or  scan  with  light  from  thy  Parnassian  skies  ! 

For  Commentator's  lamp  give  them  thine  orb 

Flaming  on  high,  transfixing  cloud  and  wave 

Or  noon-tide  laurel — (as  the  Zephyr  strikes, 

Daphne    once    more    shrinks    trembling    from    thy 

beams) — 

Were  these  but  fancies  ?     O'er  the  world  they  reared 
The  only  empire  verily  universal 
Founded  by  man — for  Fancy  heralds  Thought  ; 
Thought  Act  ;   and  nations  Are  as  they  Believe. 
Strong  were  such  fancies, — strong  not  less  than  fair  ! 
The  plant  spontaneous  of  Society 
In  Greece,  by  them  with  stellar  power  was  dewed, 
And,  nursed  by  their  far  influence,  grew  and  flour 
ished  : 

A  state  of  order  and  fair  fellowship, 
Man  with  man  walking,  not  in  barbarous  sort 
His  own  prey  finding,  each,  and  his  own  God  ; 
A  state  of  freedom,  not  by  outward  force 


9^  LINES  IVRITTEN  UNDER  DELPHI. 

Compressed,  or  ice-like  knit  by  negatives  ; 

A  frank  communion  of  deep  thoughts  with  glad, 

Light  cares  with  grave — a  changeful  melody 

Varying  each  moment,  yet  in  soul  the  same  ; 

A  temple  raised  for  beauty  and  defence  • 

An  armed  dance  held  for  a  festival  ; 

A  balanced  scheme  that  gave  each  power  a  limit, 

Each  toil  a  crown,  and  every  art  her  Muse  ! 

O  frank  and  graceful  life  of  Grecian  years  ! 

Whence  came  thy  model  ?    From  the  Grecian  heaven 

The  loves  and  wars  of  Gods,  their  works  and  ways, 

Their  several  spheres  distinct  yet  interwreathed, 

By  Greece  were  copied  on  a  lesser  stage. 

Our  thoughts  soar  high  to  light  our  paths  on  earth. 

Terrestrial  circles  from  celestial  take 

Their  impress  in  man's  science.     Stars  unreached 

Our  course  o'er  ocean  guide.     Orphean  sounds 

The  walls  of  cities  raised  ; — thus  mythic  bards 

For  all  the  legislators  legislated  ! 

VI. 

Yet  these  were  idols  :  such  as  worshipped  these 
Were  worshippers  of  idols.     Holy  and  True  ! 
How  many  are  there  not  idolaters  ? 
Traditions,  Systems,  Passion,  Interest,  Power — 
Are  these  not  idols  ?    Ay,  the  worst  of  idols  ! 
Not  that  men  worship  these  ;   but  that  before  them 
Down -bent,  the  faculty  that  worship  pays 
Shrivels  and  dies.     Man's  spirit  alone  adores, 
And  can  adore  but  Spirit.     What  is  not  God, 
Howe'er  our  fears  may  crouch,  or  habit  grovel, 


LINES  WRITTEN  UNDER  DELPHI.  99 

Or  sensuous  fancy  dote,  we  worship  not  : 

Unless  God  look  on  man,  he  cannot  pray  ; 

Such  is  Idolatry's  masked  Atheism  ! 

— Yes,  these  were   idols,  for  man  made   them  idols. 

By  a  corrupt  heart  all  things  are  corrupted, 

God's  works  alike  or  products  of  the  mind. 

The  Soul,  insurgent  'gainst  its  Maker,  lacks 

The  strength  its  vassal  powers  to  rule.     The  Will 

To  blind  Caprice  grows  subject  :    Reason,  torn 

From  Faith,  becomes  the  Understanding's  slave  ; 

And  Passion's  self  in  Appetite  is  lost 

Then  Idols  dominate— Despots  by  Self-will 

Set  up,  where  Law  and  Faith  alike  are  dead, 

To  awe  the  anarchy  of  godless  souls. 

Nought  but  a  Worship,  spiritual  and  pure, 

Profound,  habitual,  strong  through  loving  awe, 

A  true  heart's  tribute  to  the  God  of  Truth  ; 

From  selfishness  redeemed,  and  so  from  sense 

Secured,  though  conversant  with  shapes  of  sense, 

Nought  but  such   Worship,  with    spontaneous   force 

From  our  whole  Being  equably  ascending 

As  odor  from  a  flower  or  fount's  clear  breath, 

Redeems  us  from  Idolatry.     In  vain 

Are  proudly  wise  appeals  that  deprecate 

Rites  superstitious  ;   vain  are  words  though  shrill 

With  scorn — stark,  pointed  finger, — forehead  ridged 

With  blear-eyed  Scepticism's  myriad  wrinkles  : 

Saintly  we  must  be,  or  Idolatrous. 

After  his  image  Man  creates  him  Gods, 

Kneading  the  symbol  (as  a  symbol  holy 

And  salutary)  to  a  form  compact 


100  LINES  WRITTEN  UNDER  DELPHI. 

With  servile  soul  and  mean  mechanic  hand — 
Thus  to  their  native  dust  his  Thoughts  return, 
Abashed,  and  of  mortality  convinced. 


VII. 


At  Salem  was  the  Law.     The  Holy  Land 
Its  orient  terrace  by  the  ocean  reared, 
And  thereon  walked  the  Holy  One,  at  cool 
Of  the  world's  morn  :    there  visible  state  He  kept. 
At  Salem  was  the  Law  on  stone  inscribed  ; 
But  over  all  the  world,  within  man's  heart 
The  unwritten  Law  abode,  from  earliest  time 
Upon  our  nature  stampt,  nor  wholly  lost. 
Men  saw  it,  loved  it,  praised — and  disobeyed. 
Therefore  the  Conscience,  whose  applausive  voice 
Their  march  triumphant  should  have  led  with  joy 
To  all  perfection,  from  a  desert  pealed 
The  Baptist's  note  alone — "  Repent,  repent ;" 
And  men  with  song  more  flattering  filled  their  ears. 
Yet  still  the  undersong  was  holy  !   long 
(Though  cast  on  days  unblest,  though  sin-defiled) 
The  mind  accepted,  yea  the  heart  revered, 
That  which  the  Will  lacked  strength  to  follow.     Con 
science 

(Her  crown  monarchal  first,  her  fillet  next 
Snatched  from  her  sacred  brows)  a  minstrel's  wreath 
Assumed  ;  and  breathed  in  song  her  soul  abroad  : 


LINES  WRITTEN  UNDER  DELPHI.  IOI 

On  outcast  Duty's  grave  she,  with  her  tears 
Dropt  flowers  funereal  of  surpassing  beauty  ; 
With  Reason  walked  ;    the  right  path  indicated, 
Though  her  imperative  voice  was  heard  no  more. 
Nor  spake  in  vain.     Man,  fallen  man  was  great, 
Remembering  ancient  greatness  :    Hymn  and  tale 
Held,  each,  some  portion  of  dismembered  Truth, 
Severely  sung  by  Poets  wise  and  brave. 
They  sang  of  Justice,  God's  great  attribute, 
With  tragic  buskin,  and  a  larger  stride 
Following  the  fated  victim  step  by  step. 
They  sang  of  Love  crowning  the  toils  of  life  : 
Of  Joy  they  sang  ;    for  Joy,  that  gift  divine, 
Primal  and  winged  creature,  with  full  breath 
Through  all  the  elastic  limbs  of  Grecian  fable 
Poured  her  redundant  life  ;    the  noble  tongue 
Strong  as  the  brazen  clang  of  ringing  arms, 
With  resonance  of  liquid  sounds  enriching 
Sweet  as  the  music-laughter  of  the  Gods  : — 
Of  heavenly  Pity,  Prophet-like  they  sang  ; 
And,  feeling  after  Good  though  finding  not, 
Of  Him,  that  Good  not  yet  in  Flesh  revealed, 
By  ceaseless  vigils,  tears,  and  lifted  palms, 
And  yearnings  infinite  and  unrepressed, 
A  separate  and  authentic  witness  bore. 
Thus  was  the  end  foreshown.     Thus  Error's  "  cloud 
Turned  forth  its  silver  lining  on  the  night." 
Thus  too — for  us  at  least  a  precious  gift, 
Dear  for  the  lore  it  grasped,  by  all  it  lacked 
Made  strong  not  less  vain-glorious  thoughts  to  chide, 
Wisdom  shone  forth — but  not  for  men  unwise  : 


102  LINES  WRITTEN  UNDER  DELPHI. 

Her  beams  but  taint  the  dead.     Man's  Guilt  and  Woe 
She  proved — and  her  own  Helplessness  confessed. 
Such  were  her  two  great  functions.      Woe  to  those 
Who  live  with  Art  for  Faith,  and  Bards  for  Priests  J 
These  are  supplanted  :    Sense  their  loftiest  hopes 
Will  sap-;   and  Fiends  usurp  their  oracles  ! 


VIII. 


Olympian  dreams,  farewell  !   your  spell  is  past : 
I  turn  from  you  away  !     From  Eros'  self, 
From  heavenly  Beauty  on  thy  crystal  brow 
Uranian  Venus,  starred  in  gentlest  light, 
From  thee,  Prometheus,  chained  on  Caucasus, 
lo  from  thee,  sad  wanderer  o'er  the  earth, 
From  thee  great  Hercules,  the  son  of  Heaven 
And  of  Humanity  held  long  in  pain  ; 
Heroic  among  men  ;   by  labors  tried  ; 
Descending  to  the  Shades,  and  leading  thence 
The  Lost ;   while  infant  still  a  Serpent-slayer ; 
In  death  a  dread  and  mystic  Sacrifice — 
From  thee,  more  high  than  all,  from  thee,  Apollo  ! 
Light  of  the  world  whose  sacred  beam,  like  words, 
Illustrated  the  forehead  of  the  earth  ; 
Supreme  of  Harmonists,  whose  song  flowed  forth 
Pure  from  that  light ;   great  slayer  of  the  Serpent 
That  mocked  thy  Mother ;    master  of  that  art 
Healing  man's  ancient  wound  ;    Oracular  : 
Secretly  speaking  wisdom  to  the  just ; 


LINES  WRITTEN  UNDER  DELPHI.  1 03 

Openly  to  the  lost  from  lips  unheeded 

Like  thy  Cassandra's  flinging  it  to  waste — 

Phoebus  Apollo  !    here  at  thy  chief  shrine 

From  thee  I  turn  ;    and  stern  confession  make 

That  not  the  vilest  weed  yon  ripple  casts 

Here  at  my  feet,  but  holds  a  loftier  gift 

Than  all  the  Grecian  Legends.     Let  them  go — 

Because  the  mind  of  man  they  lifted  up, 

But  corruptible  instincts  left  to  grovel 

On  Nature's  common  plane — year  and  below  it  ; 

Because  they  slightly  healed  the  People's  wound : 

And  sought  in  genial  fancy,  finite  hopes, 

Proportioned  life,  and  dialectic  Art, 

A  substitute  for  Virtue  ;   and  because 

They  gave  for  nothing  that  which  Faith  should  earn, 

Casting  the  pearls  of  Truth  'neath  bestial  feet  : — 

Because  they  washed  the  outside  of  the  cup, 

And  dropped  a  thin  veil  o'er  the  face  of  Death  ; 

Because  they  neither  brought  man  to  his  God, 

Nor  let  him  feel  his  weakness — let  them  go  ! 

Wisdom  that  raises  not  her  sons  is  Folly: 

Truth  in  its  unity  alone  is  Truth. 


IX. 


What  now  is  Delphi  ?     Where  that  temple  now 
Dreadful  to  kings  ;    with  votive  offerings  stored, 
Tripod,  or  golden  throne  from  furthest  lands, 
Or  ingot  huge  ?      Where  now  that  tremulous  stone, 
Centre  of  all  things  deemed— Earth's  beating  heart  ? 


104  LINES  WRITTEN  UNDER  DELPHI. 

What  now  is  Delphi  ?  yea,  or  Hellas'  self, 

With  all  her  various  States  ;    epitome 

Of  Nations  ;    stage  whereon  in  little  space 

Forecasting  Time  rehearsed  his  thousand  parts  ? 

Sparta's  one  camp — the  sacred  plain  of  Thebes  ; 

That  plain,  pious  as  rich,  whence  grateful  Ceres 

The  hand   that  blesses   Earth  upraised  to  Heaven — 

The  unboastful  freedom  of  Arcadian  vales — 

Athens  with  Academic  Arts,  and  ships 

Far-seen  from  pillared  headlands  ?     Where,  O  where 

Olympia's  chariot-course  that  bent  the  eyes 

Of  Greece  on  one  small  ring  shining  like  fire — 

Or  they,  that  sacred  Council,  at  whose  nod 

King  and  Republic  trembled  ?     Gone  for  ever  ! 

Vine  on  the  wave  diffused,  budding  with  Isles  ; 

Bower  of  young  Earth,  wherein  the  East  and  West, 

Wedded,  their  beauteous  progeny  upreared  ; 

Hellas,  by  Nature  blest,  by  Freedom  nursed, 

By  Providence  led  on  through  discipline 

Of  change,  till  that  Philosophy  was  formed 

Which  made  one  City  man's  perpetual  Teacher — 

Hellas  is  past !     A  lamentable  voice 

Forth  from  the  caverns  of  Antiquity 

Issuing  in  mystery,  answers,  Where  is  Egypt  ? 

Egypt  of  magic  craft  and  starry  lore, 

Eternal  brooder  on  the  unknown  Past 

Through  the  long  vista  of  her  Kings  and  Priests 

Descried,  as  setting  Moon  beyond  the  length 

Of  forest  aisle,  or  desert  colonnade  ; 

Eldest  of  nations,  and  apart,  like  Night 

Dark- veiled  amid  the  synod  of  the  Gods  ? 


LI  WES  WRITTEN  UNDER  DELPHI.  105 

The  sun  and  stars  with  gaze  alternate  wonder 
At  pyramids  sand-drowned,  and  long  processions 
Now  petrified  to  lines  of  marble  shapes 
That  lead  to  Sphinx-girt  Cities  of  the   Dead  ! 
Where  now  is  Babylon,  mighty  by  peace 
And  gold,  and  men  countless  as  forest  leaves  ? 
Persia,  the  Macedonian,   Carthage,  Tyre  ? 
All  gone — restored  to  earth  !      Great  Rome   herself, 
Haughty  with  arcs  of  triumph,  theatres 
Sphered  to  embrace  all  Nations  and  their  Gods  ; 
Roads  from  one  centre  piercing  lands  remote  ; 
Bridges,  fit  type  of  Conquest's  giant  stride  ; 
Great  Rome  herself,  empire  of  War  and  Law — 
Yoking  far  regions — harrowing  those  fields 
Reserved  for  Christian  seed — Great  Rome  herself 
Was,  and  is  not  !     The  eternal  edict  stands  : 
The   power  from  God  which  comes   not,  drops  and 
dies. 


x. 


Hark,  to  that  sound  !   yon  ocean  Eagle  drives 
The  mist  of  morn  before  her,  seaward  launched 
From  her  loved  nest  on  Delphi.     She,  though  stern, 
Can  love — a  divine  instinct,  that  outlasts 
Phoebus,  thy  fabulous  honors  !     Far  away 
The  storms  are  dying,  and  the  night-bird  pours, 
Encouraged  thus,  her  swift  and  rapturous  song. 
Ah  !   when  that  song  is  over,  I  depart  ! 


IO6  LINES  WRITTEN  UNDER  DELPHI. 

Return,  my  wandering  thoughts  !  the  ascended  Moon 

Smiles  on  her  Brother's  peaks,  and  many  a  ridge 

Her  glance  solicits  ;    many  a  stirring  wood 

Exults  in  her  strong  radiance  as  she  glides 

On  from  the  pine  gulf  to  the  gulf  of  clouds. 

Return,  my  thoughts  !    the  innumerous  cedar  cones 

Of  Lebanon  must  lull  you  now  no  longer  ; 

Nor  fall  of  Empires  with  as  soft  a  sound. 

O'er  famed  Colonos  stoop  no  more  in  trance, 

Eyeing  the  city  towers.     No  longer  muse, 

With  mind  divided,  though  a  single  heart, 

On  legend— true  or  erring  !     Earth  can  yield 

No  scene  more  fair  than  this— and  Nature's  beauty 

Is  ever  irreproachable.     Return  ! 

A  long  breath  take  of  this  ambrosial  clime 

Ere  lost  the  sweetness  :    sigh,  yet  be  content  : 

Fill  here  your  golden  urns  ;   be  fresh  for  ever  ! 


XI. 


I  have  beheld  Mont  Blanc  ;  in  eminence, 
Though  seated,  over  all  his  standing  sons, 
Unearthly  Eremite  whose  cell  is  Heaven  ; 
His  glacier  beard  forth-streaming  to  his  feet 
Beyond  his  cloudy  raiment.     I  have  gazed 
On  Rome  ;    have  watched  it  from  the  Alban  hill  ; 
Have  marked  that  dome  supreme,  its  mitred  crown, 
Dilate  at  sunset  o'er  the  Latian  bounds. 
Byzantium  I  have  seen  ;   first  capital 


TIIL   DIGNITY  OF  SORROW. 


lO/ 


That  owned  the  Faith ;  whose  rising  up  once  more 
Shall  be  as  mighty  gates  their  *  heads  uplifting' 
O'er  all  the  earth,  '  for  God  to  enter  in.' 
These  three  have  I  beheld  :    to  these  henceforth 
I  add  a  fourth  to  stand  with  these  for  ever. 
On  rock  or  tree  my  name  I  dare  not  trace — 
Delphi  !    stamp  thou  thine  image  on  my  heart. 


THE    DIGNITY    OF    SORROW. 


I  HAVE  not  seen  you  since  the  Shadow  fell 

From  Heaven  against  your  door  : 
I  know  not  if  you  bear  your  Sorrow  well : 
I   only  know  your  hearth  is  cold  ;   your  floor 
Will  hear  that  soft  and  gliding  tread  no  more. 

II. 

I  know  our  ancient  friendship  now  is  over  : 
I   can  love  still,  and  so  will  not  complain  : 

I  have  not  loved  in  vain  ; 
Taught  long  that  Art  of  Sadness  to  discover 

Which  draws  stern  solace  from  the  wells  of  Pain. 
You  love  the  Dead  alone ;   or  you  have  lost 
The  power  and  life  of  Love  in  Time's  untimely  frost. 


108  THE  DIGNITY  OF  SORROW. 

III. 

You  have  stood  up  in  the  great   Monarch's  court — 
The  court  of  Death  :    in  spirit  you  have  seen 

His  lonely  shades  serene 
Where  all  the  mighty  men  of  old  resort. 

The  eyes  of  Proserpine, 
Heavy  and  black,  have  rested  upon  thine. 
Her  vintage,  wine  from  laurel-berries  prest, 
You  raised — and  laid  you  then  the  dark  urn  down, 
Scared  by  that  Queen's  inevitable  frown, 
Just  as  the  marble  touched  your  panting  breast  ? 
Oh  !    in  the  mirror  of  that  poison  cold 
What  Shadow  or  what  Shape  did  you  behold  ? 

IV. 

And  she  is  dead :    and  you  have  long  been  dying : 
And  are  recovered,  and  live  on  !     O  Friend  ! 

Say,  what  shall  be  the  end 
Of  leaf-lamenting  boughs  and  wintry  sighing  ? 
When  will  the  woods  that  moan 

Resume  their  green  array  ? 
When  will  the  dull,  sad  clouds  be  overblown, 
And  a  calm  sunset  close  our  stormy  day  ? 

v. 

My  thoughts  pursue  you  still.     I  call  them  back. 

Once  more  they  seek  you,  like  the  birds  that  rise 
Up  from  their  reeds,  and  in  a  winding  track 

Circle  the  field  wherein  their  forage  lies  ; — 
Or  like  some  poor  and  downcast  Pensioner, 

Depressed  and  timid,  though  his  head  be  grey, 


SONG.  109 

That    moves    with    curving   steps    to    greet    his 

Lord, 

Whom  he  hath  watched  all  day — 
Yet  lets  him  pass  away  without  a  word  ; 
And  gazes  on  his  footsteps  from  afar. 


SONG. 


A   BRIGHTENED   Sorrow  veils   her   face, 

Sweet   thoughts   with   thoughts   forlorn, 
And  playful   sadness,   like    the   grace 

Of  some   autumnal   morn ; 
When  birds   new-waked,   like   sprightly  elves, 

The  languid  echoes    rouse, 
And   infant   Zephyrs    make    themselves 

Familiar  with   old  boughs. 

II. 

All   round   our  hearts  the   Maiden's   hair 

Its   own   soft   shade   doth   fling : 
Her  sigh   perfumes  the    forest   air, 

Like   eve — but   eve   in   Spring! 
When   Spring  precipitates   her  flow  ; 

And    Summer,    swift  to   greet    her, 
Breathes,    every   night,    a  warmer  glow 

Half  through   the   dusk  to  meet  her. 


HO  A    WANDERER'S  MUSINGS  AT  ROME. 


A    WANDERERS  MUSINGS  AT  ROME. 

THANKS  be  to  Heaven  !  yon  grove  of  sombre  pines, 

Whose  several  tops,  like  feathers  in  one  wing 

Folded  o'er  one  another,  hang  in  air, 

From  the  great  City  hides  me  !     From  its  sound, 

Low  but  mysterious,  urgent,  agitating, 

Not  distance  only,  but  those  rifted  walls 

Immense  (how  oft  at  noontide  have  I  watched 

The  long  green  lizard  from  their  fissures  glance, 

And  glide  from  thicket-mantled  tower  to  tower) 

Not  less  protect  me.     Thanks  once  more  to  Heaven  ! 

This  nook  in  which   I  lie,   this  grassy  isle 

Amid  the  burnt  brake  nested,  hath  no  name  : 

No  legend  haunts  it.     Unalarmed  I   turn, 

Confronted  by  no  despot  from  the  grave, 

By  no  inscription  challenged.     If  this  spot 

Was  trod  of  old  by  consul  or  by  King, 

It  is  my  privilege   to  be  ignorant  : 

They  lived  and  died.     If  here  the  Roman  Twins 

Tugged  at  the  she-wolf,  they  have  had  their  day  : 

Yon  lambs  have  now  their  hour  ;  and  I,   a  stranger, 

Following  the  path  their  feet  have  worn,  here  find 

Their  cool  recess,  and  share  it.     Pretty  thrush  ! 

Possess  thy  soul  in  peace,  and  sing  at  will, 

Sharpening  thy  clear  expostulating  note, 

Or  softening,  'mid  the  branches.     Murmuring  stream  ! 

Sufficient  to  solicit  and  reward 

An  unconstrained  attention,  thou  to  me 

(A  lover  of  the  torrents  ere  I  heard  them) 

This  clay  art  dearer  far  than  Alpine  floods 


A    WANDERER'S  MUSINGS  AT  ROME. 

In  whose  abysmal  voices  all  the  sounds 

Of  all  the  vales  are  met  and  reconciled. 

From  admiration  I  desire  repose  ; 

Rest  from  that  household  foe,  a  beating  heart; 

Yea,  from  all  thought  exemption,  save  such  thoughts 

As,  lightly  wafted  toward  us,  leave  us  lightly, 

And,  like  the  salutation  of  those  winds 

That  curl  yon  ilex  leaves,  if  sweets  they  bring, 

Bequeath  a  sweeter  freshness.     Three  weeks  since 

To  me  this  dell  of  grass  had  seemed  a  prison, 

And  hours  here  spent  ignoblest  apathy. 

The  change  !  whence  comes  it  ?     Fevered  nights  and 

days 

Make  answer  !     Answer  thou,  mysterious  City, 
Whose  shade  eclipsed  the  world  a  thousand  years  ! 
Tomb,   aqueduct,  and  porch  I  visited, 
And  strove  with  adulating  thoughts  to  clasp  ; 
And  could  not :    for  as  some  vast  tree,  the  sire 
Of  woods,  flings  off  the  span  of  infant  arms, 
So  by  its  breadth  and  compass   Rome  rebuked 
My  sympathies.     The  "lesser,"  verily, 
"  Is  of  the  greater  blessed  ;"  and  Love,  a  gift, 
Falls  back,  repulsed,  from  that  which  scorns  its  aid  ; 
From  that  which,  solitary  in  its  vastness, 
Admits  no  measurement,  nor  condescends 
To  be  in  portions  grasped  ;  from  that  which  yields 
No  crevice  to  the  climber's  hand  or  foot; 
Whose  height  o'erawes  our  winged  aspirations, 
Like  some  steep  cliff  of  ocean  in  whose  shade 
The  circling  sea-birds  wail.     And  yet,  unable 
With  soul-unburdening  love  to  clasp  thee,   Rome, 
Much  more  was  I  unable  to  forget  thee. 


112  A    WANDERER'S  MUSINGS  AT  ROME. 

I  mused  in  city  wastes,  where  pitying  Earth 
Takes  back  into  her  breast  huge  fragments  strewn 
Around,   like  bones  of  savage  beasts   extinct : 
From  wreck  to  wreck  I   roamed  :    my  very  dreams 
Nested  in  obscure  haunts   and  vaults  unhealthy  : 
Ruin  on  ruin  pressed,  rivals  in  death, 
Like  grave  dislodging  grave  in  churchyard  choked  : 
Triumphant  Pillar,  and  vainglorious   Arch 
Towered  in  blue  sky:   voluptuous   Baths  laid  bare 
Colossal  vice:   and  one  great*  Temple  meet 
For  that  promiscuous  worship  Statecraft  loves, 
Lifted  its  haughty  dome  and  pillared  front. 
I  sought  Cornelia's  house,  but  found  instead 
The  Caesars'  Palace,  and  the  Coliseum, 
That  theatre  of  blood,  where  sat  enthroned, 
Swollen  with  the  rage  of  Roman  merriment, 
The  Roman  People — Earth's  chief  idol  served 
With  human  victims  ! 

From  its  own  excess 
Triumphant  Evil  suffers  confutation  : 
Not  here  where,  tested  by  the  extreme  it  reached, 
The  Imperial  instinct  stands  unmasked — not  here 
Can  the  sword's  conquests  subjugate  the  soul. 
A  lucid  interval  perforce  is  ours, 
By  these  memorials  quelled.     The  race  that  here 
Trod  down  their  brethren  daily,  in  their  day 
Might  plead  some  poor  excuse.     Each  war  to  them 
Some  singular  necessity  might  urge, 
Or  final  peace  impledge  :  but  we  who  stand 

*  The  Pantheon. 


A     WANDERERS  MUSINGS  AT  ROME.  1 13 

Outfaced  by  all  the  congregated  trophies 

They  reared  that  gloried  in  their  shame  ;  who  pace 

O'er  Tullia's  way  to  reach  Domitian's  halls  ; 

Who  in  one  choir  behold  the  British  Queen 

And  earliest  Sabine  maid  ;   who  hear  at  once 

The  wail  of  Veii  and  the  falling  roofs 

Of  Carthage,  till  monotonous  becomes 

The  cry  of  nations,  and  the  tale  of  blood 

A  tedious  iteration  ;  we  who  scan, 

Marbled  in  Rome,  the  form  of  injured  Earth, 

And  trace  her  wounds,  and  count  each  accurate  scar 

In  that  dread  victim  by  Rome's  talon  and  beak 

Grav'n  and  recorded — we  are  scantly  moved 

On  martial  sway  to  dote.     What  magic,  then, 

Draws  us  to  Rome  ?     What  Spirit  bids  the  nations 

Send  up  their  tribes  to  one  Metropolis — 

To  her  whom  many  hate — whom  many  fear — 

Where  lies  the  spell  ?     Luxurious  wealth  has  spread 

No  velvet  o'er  the  Roman  streets,  nor  hung 

The  spoils  of  Cashmeer,  Persia,  Samarcand, 

On  either  side  the  way.     No  flattering  dream 

Of  Fame  restored,  and  ancient  life  renewed, 

Looks  forth  from  heaven  into  a  young  man's  eyes, 

Then  drops,  and  plants  its  tent  on  Tyber's  bank. 

The  tawny  Tyber  is  no  mountain  rill 

Where   Fancy  slakes  her  thirst.      The   sage  shrinks 

back, 

And  in  the  Roman  -Sibyl's  bleeding  book 
WTill  read  no  line — 

The  future  here  is  mortgaged  to  the  past ; 
Hope  breathes  no  temporal  promise  o'er  that  plain 
On  which  malaria  broods  :  amid  the  tombs 


H4  A    WANDERERS  MUSINGS  A  7'  ROME. 

Her  foot  moves  slowly ;  and  where  Hope  is  lame 
The  social  forces  languish. 

Whence  the  spell 

That  draws  us,  then,  to  Rome  ?     In  arms,  no  more 
It  lives.     Abides  it  ambushed  then  in   Art  ? 
The  reign  of  Art   is  over.      To  uprear 
A  prostrate  column  on  its   crumbling  base 
Is  here  her  chief  of  triumphs  !      Art  is  dead  ! 
Here  as  in  every  land.     In  death  gold-robed 
Her  soul-less  body,  stretched  across  the  street, 
Blocks  up  the  public  ways.      The  artist's   study, 
Of  old  a  hermit's  cell,  where  Mind  recluse, 
Pillowed  on  stores  aforetime  wrung  from  Thought 
By  Passion,  by  Experience  drawn  from   Life, 
Saw  visions  as  in  Patmos,  and  set  forth 
The  shapes  it  saw,  is  now  a  wrangling  shop 
In  all  the  regal  cities  of  the  world, 
For  them  that  buy  and  sell.      In  ancient  time 
The  painter  was  a  preacher,  whose  sage  hand 
Pictured  high  thought.      If  Martyrdom  that  thought, 
The  radiant  face  of  confessor  unmoved 
Expressed  full  well  that  death  which  is  a  birth 
Into  the  realms  of  light.      If  Faith  that  thought, 
Lo  !    where   St.  Jerome,  eremite  and  saint, 
A  dweller  among  rocks,  himself  a  rock, 
Wasted  and  gaunt,   fast-worn,   and  vigil-blind, 
Dying,  draws  near  in  faith  (with  both  hands  clasped, 
And  awe-struck  lip)  to   Him  the  invisible, 
And  on  that  "  Last  Communion"    hanging,   rests 
The  weight  of  all  his  being  !      If  he  mused 
On  Purity,  ah  !  mark  that  seer  (nor  young, 


A    WANDERER'S  MUSINGS  AT   ROME.  II 

Nor  female)  who  a  lily   holds  and  reads 

Writ  in  its  depths   the  life  white-robed  of  them 

Who  follow  still  the  Lamb  !     Art,  Art  of  old, 

Handmaid  of  Faith — prophet  that  witness  bore 

Of  God,  not  self,  nor  came  in  her  own  name  ; 

Initiate  in  the   Ideal  Truth  that  spans 

The  actual  scope  of  things,  and  thence   advanced 

To  stand  great  Nature's  meek   Interpreter  ; 

Is  now  a  painted  Queen,  and  keeps  her  court 

In  palace  halls  whose  marble  labyrinths 

Like  cities  peopled  by  a  race  of  stone, 

Branch  forth  unnumbered.     Breathlessly  we  turn  ; 

And  sigh  for  stillness,  sigh  for  utter  peace, 

For  darkness,  or  assuasive  twilight  drawn 

In  dewy  gentleness  o'er  pastures  broad 

Whose  cool  serenity  of  blue  and  green 

Lures  the  tense  spirit  forth,  and  in  a  bath 

Of  relaxation  soft  soothes  and  contents  it — 

Too  much  of  ostentatious  aid  unasked  ! 

Are  we  so  weak  within  ?     Can  we  advance 

No  step  without  a  crutch  ?  no  lessons  learn, 

Save  lessons  thrust  upon  us  ?     Can  we  catch 

In  Nature's  music  manifold  no  voice 

But  sad  confessions  of  her  nothingness  ? 

Trust  we  in  dead  things  only  ?     Nature  lives  ! 

Her  moving  clouds,  the  rapture  of  her  waves, 

Her  rural  haunts  domestic — nooks  sun-warmed, 

Endeared  to  babe  and  greybeard — her  expanse 

Of  fruitful  plains,  with  hamlet,  hall,  and  tower, 

Homestead  and  hedge,   in  autumn's  glistening  air 

Drawn  out  at  eve,  or  by  the  ferment  dazed 

Of  summer  sunrise,  or  on  vernal  noon 


A     WANDERER'S  MUSINGS  AT  ROME. 

Melting  in  pearly  distance  like  our  dreams 

For  man's  far  welfare  ;  her  mysterious  glens, 

That  with  the  substance  of  one  shade  are  thronged, 

And  other  habitant  have  none,  that  speak 

Of  God  and  God  alone,  transfix  the  heart 

With  wisdom  less  imposed  on  man  than  won 

From  man's  resources.     Nature's  demonstrations, 

Maternal,  not  scholastic,  need  have  none 

Of  diagram.     Her  own  face  is  their  proof, 

Subduing  in  the  pathos  of  its  smiles, 

Or  power  of  eye :   and  being  infinite, 

Her  life  is  all   in  every   part ;  her  lore 

In  lowliest   shape  is  perfect.     Thou,  frail  flower, 

Anemone  !    that  near  my  grassy  couch, 

By  a  breath  shaken  which   I  scarcely  feel, 

Thy  gracious  head  as  though  in  worship  bowest 

Down  on  thy  mother's  lap — in  thee,  in  thee 

(I  seek  no  further)  lives  that  Power  supreme, 

Whereof  the  artists  boast.     Immaculate  Beauty 

In  thy  humility  doth  dominate, 

Is  of  thy  tremblings  proud,  and,  gladly  clothed 

In  thy  thin  garb  of  colors  and  fair  forms, 

Looks  up  and  smiles.     I  pluck  thee   from  thy  bed — 

Lie  lightly  on  a  breast  that  weary  grows 

Of  haughtier  burdens  !     Cool  a  fevered  heart, 

That  seeking  better  things  hath  sought  in  vain  ! 

Be  thou  my  monitor :  let  me  sum  up. 

What  have  I  chiefly  learned  from  human  life  ? 

That  life  as  brief  as  thine  is  to  be  praised  : 

That  life's  best  blessings  are  the  joys  we  tread 

To  death  unseen,  chasing  inventions  vain  : 

That  He  who  made  thee,  made  the  heavens  and  earth, 


A    WANDERER'S  ItfU SINGS  AT  ROME.  I  I/ 

And  man ;    and  that  in  Him  is  life  alone  ; 

To  serve  Him  freedom  and  to  know  Him  peace. — 

Thine  ancestress  that  bloomed  in  Paradise, 

Possessed  no  softer  voice  to  celebrate 

(Joining  the  visual  chorus  of  all  worlds) 

Her  great  Creator's  glory ! 

Hark  that  peal ! 

From  countless  domes  that  high  in   sunlight   shake, 
A  thousand  bells  roll  forth  their  harmonies  : 
The  City,  by  the  noontide  flame  oppressed, 
And  sheltered  long  in  sleep,  awakes.     Even  now, 
Along  the  Pincian  steep,  with  youthful  step 
To   dignity  subdued,  collegiate  trains 
Precede  their  grave  preceptors.    Courts  grass-grown, 
That  echoed  long  some  fountain's  lonely  splash, 
Now  ring  more  loudly,  by  the  red  wheels  dinned 
Of  prince,  or  prelate  of  the  Church  intent 
On  some  majestic  Rite.     That  peal  again  ! 
And  now  the  linked  Procession  moves  abroad, 
Untwining  slowly  its  voluminous  folds  : 
It  pauses — through  the  dusky  archway  drawn, 
It  vanishes — upcoiled  at  last,  and  still, 
Girdling  the  Coliseum's    central  Cross, 
The  sacred  pageant  rests.     With  stealthy  motion 
So  slid  the  Esculapian  snake  of  old 
i  Forth  from   the  darkness.     In  Hesperian  isle 
So  rested,   coiled  around  the  mystic  stem, 
The  watcher  of  the  fruit.     The  day  draws  on  : 
The  multitudinous  thrill  of  quickening  life 
Vibrates  through  all  the  city,  while  its  blood 
Flows  back  from  vein  to  vein.     That  sound  prevails 


Il8  A    WANDERER'S  MUSINGS  AT  ROME. 

In  convent  walks  by  rustling  robe  trailed  o'er ; 

Like  hum  of  insects  unbeheld  it  throbs 

Through  orange-scented,  cloistral  gardens  dim ; 

It  deepens  with  the  concourse  onward  borne 

Between  those  statued  saints  that  guard  thy  bridge, 

St.  Angelo,  and  past  the  Adrian  Tomb 

Where  at  the  Church's  foot  an  Empire  sleeps  ; 

It  swells  within  those  Colonnades  whose  arms 

Receive  once  more  the  concourse  from  all  lands — 

The  lofty  English  noble,  student  pale 

From  Germany,  diplomatist  from  France, 

Far  Grecian  patriarch,  or  Armenian  priest, 

Or  Royal  Exile.     From  thy  marble   roofs, 

St.  Peter's,  in  whose  fastnesses  abide, 

Like  Arab  tribe  encamped,  the  bands  ordained 

To  guard  them  from  the  aggressive  elements — 

From  those  aerial  roofs  to  whispering  depths 

Of  crypts  where  kneels  the  cowled  monk  alone, 

The    murmur    spreads    like    one    broad    wind    that 

lifts, 

Ere  morn  the  sighing  shrouds  of  fleet  becalmed  : 
The  churches  fill ;  the  relics  forth  are  brought  : 
Screened  by  rich  fretwork  the  monastic  apse 
Resounds  the   hoarse  chant,  like  an  ocean  cave  : 
And  long  ere  yet  those  obelisks  which  once 
Shadowed  the  Nile,   o'er   courts  Basilican 
Project  their  evening  shades,  like  silver  stars 
Before  white  altars  glimmering  lights  shall  burn, 
And  solitary  suppliants  lift  their  hands 
To  Christ,  for   ever  Present,  to    His  Saints, 
And  to  His    Martyrs,  whom  the  Catacombs 
Hid   in  their  sunless  bosoms. 


A    WANDERER'S  MUSINGS  AT  ROME.  IK) 

Rome,  O    Rome  ! 

Surely  thy  Strength  is  here !     Three  hundred  years 
The  faithful  people  lived  among  the  Tombs  ; 
The  Catacombs  were  their  Metropolis. 
There  in  the  darkness  thirty  Pontiffs  ruled  ; 
There  won  the  crown  of  martyrdom.     The  Rite, 
Dread,  and  tremendous,  yoking  earth  and  heaven, 
The  Christian  Sacrifice,  was  offered  there, 
A  tomb  the  altar,  and,  for  relics,  blood 
Of  him  who  last  confessed.     The  pictured  walls 
To  Mary  and  to  Peter  witness   still. 
Here  is  thy  Strength,  O    Rome  !     Sun-clad,  above, 
The  Emperor  triumphed,  and  the  People  triumphed  ! 
The  Nubian  lion,  and  the  Lybian  pard 
Roared  for  their  prey !     Above  thy  tawny  wave, 
Tyber,  the  world's  increase  went  up   each  day : 
Daily  from  Rome  the  Legions  passed  whose  arms 
Flashed  back  in  turn  the  sunrise  of  all  lands  : 
Through  every  gate  the  embassies  of  Kings 
Advanced  with  gifts.     But  in  the  Catacombs 
The  Faithful  People,  circled  by  their  dead, 
Worshipped  their  God  in  peace.    Three  hundred  years 
Passed  like  three  days  :  and  lo  !  that  Power  went  forth 
Which  conquered  Death.  Then  Hell  gave  up  her  prey: 
That  hour  the  kingdoms  of  this  world  became 
The  kingdoms  of  the  Lord,  and  of  His  Christ : 
The  Prince  of  this  world,  from  his  throne,  upreared 
On  subject   thrones  of  every  land,  was  hurled  : 
The  Pagan  victories   then  their  meaning  found: 
The  Empire  last  and  mightiest  that  absorbed 
All  its  precursors, « lay  a  ruin  :  God 
His   Family  on  earth  a  Kingdom   made, 


I2O  A    WANDERER'S  MUSINGS  AT  ROME. 

And   Sion  built  on  buried  Babylon  ! 
The  Sacrament  of  Obedience  paid  to  God 
Through  Man,  His  Vicar,  glorified  that  hour, 
Subjection ;  and  the  Apostles  reigned  at  Rome — 
Reigned  from  their  tombs,  and  conquered  from  their 

dust! 

Behold  the   mystery  of  the  ages  !     Man 
Wrought  it  unconscious  !     History  is  mad, 
Or  finds  its  meaning  here.     One  mystery  vast 
Solves  here  Philosophy's  uncounted  riddles  : 
Time  with  its  tumults  here  is  harmonized  : 
Hope  here  is  found  or  nowhere  ! 

As  a  mist 

That  strives  no  longer,  swept  by  quiring  winds 
From   some  peak'd  mountain,  my  oppression  leaves 

me ! 

Great  Rome  is   mine  at  last  !     Refreshed  I  rise  ; 
And  gales  of  life  from  that  celestial   bourne 
Whereto  we  tend  strike  on  me.     With  soft  shock 
Yon  almond  bower  lets  fall  its  summer  snow, 
The  sun  is  setting.     The  despotic  day 
Which,  blessing  earth  with  increase,  suffered  none 
To  lift  a  grateful  eye,  hath  heard  his  doom  ; 
And  round  him  folds   his   robes,   blood-stained   and 

golden, 

With  dignity  to  die.     Like  haughty  hopes 
From  one  reduced  by  sickness,  from  the  clouds 
Their  pageantries  are  melting  :  and  ere  long 
No  hue  save   that  translucent,  tender  green, 
Will  speak  of  pomps  gone  by.     The  increasing  wind, 
Incumbent  on  the  pine-grove's  summit  broad, 


A    WANDERER'S  MUSINGS  AT  ROME.  121 

Gathers  in  volumed  strength  :  within  its  vaults 

An  omnipresent  and  persistent  whisper 

Waxes  in  loudness.     Well,  might  I  believe 

The  hosts  angelic,  who  with  guardian  care, 

Urging  belike  the  seasons   in  their  course, 

Circle  the  earth,  even  now  on  wings  outspread 

Were  rustling  o'er  me,  countless  as  sea-sands. 

Glorious  and  blessed  Armies  !  free  ye  are 

From  man's  uncertainties,  and  free  not  less 

From  man's  illusions  !     Passing  in  one  flight 

Calpe  and  Athens — all  that  makes  renowned 

This  many-mountained,  many-citied  globe, 

To  you  our  schemes  of  worldly  rule  must  seem 

Like  some  poor  maniac's  towers  in  charcoal  sketched 

(Airy  possession)  on  his  cell's  bare  wall  ; 

Our  science  like  that  knowledge  won  from  touch 

By  one  born  blind  ;    our  arts  like  gems  minute, 

Poor  fragments  crumbled   from  your  spheres  eterne  ! 

Pity  us,  then,  bright  Spirits,  for  ye  know 

The  weakness  of  our  strength  ;    the  poverty 

Ye  know,  which  we  for  wealth  misdeem — exchanging 

The  gold  of  Truth  Unchangeable  and  One 

(Shared,  not  divided)  for  the  baser  coin 

Of  Truth  in  portions,  scattered  through  the  world. 

Ye  know  the  sad  vacuity  of  hearts 

With  trifles  filled,  and  thence  from  Him  averse 

In  love  for  Whom  is  clasped  the  love  of  all   things, 

And  their  possession.     Starlike  in  your  ken, 

By  distance,  and  the  barriers  of  the  nations, 

And  all  that  haze  which  men  call  ancientness, 

Unfooled  ye  are.     For  you  the  Church  of  God, 

Unwrinkled  as  the  ocean,  wears  for  aye 


122  A     WANDERER'S  MUSINGS  AT  ROME. 

Her  Pentecostal  glory.     All  things  that  live, 
And  die  not — all  Realities  divine, 
Live  in  the  light  of  an  eternal  Present 
And  prime  perpetual.     Him  whom  we  revere 
As  patriarch,  ye  behold  a  white-haired  babe, 
Poor,  heaven-protected  infant  of  fourscore  : 
His  course  accomplished,  still  in  him  ye  note 
His  mother's  new  delight — a  bud  dried  up  ; 
Dropt  from  the  human  stem  at  noon  ;  ere  night 
Blown  forth  into  the  darkness.     Spirits  blest ! 
The  sun  that  runs  before  you  rises  ever; 
For  ever  sets  ;  reigns  ever  throned  at  noon  : 
Past,  Present,  Future  mingle  in  your  sight, 
And  Time  its  tortuous  stream  spreads  to  a  lake 
Girt  by,  and  imaging,  Eternity, 
Between  whose  mirror  and  the  infinite  vault 
Ye  in  the  radiance  bask  ! 

Bask  on,  bright  Spirits  ! 
Bathe  in  the  beam  of  Godhead;    or  fulfil 
With  awe  your  ministries  of  love,  in  Man 
That  seeing  which  they  saw  not  who  of  old 
The  Galilean  mocked.     By  death  absolved — 
By  perfected  Obedience  rendered  free, 
Man  o'er  the  ruins  of  the  world  shall  rise ; 
Yea,  from  the  height  of  heaven,  the  throne  of  God, 
Shall  gaze  upon  a  universe  renewed — 
His  Image  o'er  that  universe  shall  cast 
And  o'er  your  shining  hosts — his  hand  shall  raise ; 
And,  with  the  Voice  Supreme  blending  his  own, 
Shall  bless  you,  and  pronounce  you  "very  good." 


SONG.  1 23 


SONG. 

HE  found  me  sitting  among  flowers, 

My  Mother's,  and  my  own  ; 
Whiling  away  too  happy  hours 

With  songs  of  doleful  tone. 

My  Sister  came,  and   laid  her  book 

Upon  my  lap  :  and  He, 
He  too  into  the  page  would  look, 

And  asked  no  leave  of  me. 

The  little  frightened  creature  laid 

Her  face  upon  my  knee — 
"  You  teach  your  sister,  pretty  maid  ; 
And  I  would  fain  teach  thee." 

He  taught  me  Joy  more  blest,  more  brief 
Than  that  mild  vernal  weather : 

He  taught  me  Love ;    he  taught  me  Grief : 
He  taught  me  both  together. 

Give  me  a  sun-warmed  nook  to  cry  in  ! 

And  a  wall-flower's  perfume — 
A  nook  to  cry  in,  and  to  die  in, 

'Mid  the  Ruin's  gloom. 


PERSECUTION. 


PERSECUTION. 


THERE  was  silence  in  the  heavens 
When  the  Son  of  Man  was  led 

From  the  Garden  to  the  Judgment ; 
Sudden  silence,  strange,  and  dread  ! 
All  along  the  empyreal  coasts, 
On  their  knees  the  immortal  hosts 
Watched,  with  sad  and  wondering  eyes, 
That  tremendous  sacrifice. 

n. 

There  was  silence  in  the  heavens 
When  the  Priest  his  garment  tore; 

Silence  when  that  Twain  accursed 
Their  false  witness  faintly  bore. ' 
Silence  (though  a  tremor  crept 
O'er  their  ranks)  the  Angels  kept 
While  that  judge,  dismayed  though  proud, 
Wash'd  his  hands  before  the   crowd. 


in. 


But  when  Christ  His  cross  was  bearing, 
Fainting  oft,  by  slow  degrees, 

Then  went  forth  the  angelic  thunder, 
Of  legions  rising  from  their  knees. 


LINES   WRITTEN  BESIDE   THE   LA  GO   VARESE.       12$ 

Each  bright  Spirit  grasped  a  brand; 
And  lightning  flashed  from  band  to  band : 
An  instant  more  had  launched  them  forth, 
Avenging  terrors,  to  the  earth. 

IV. 

Then  from  God  there  fell  a  glory, 
Round  and  o'er  that  multitude  ; 

And  by  every  fervent  Angel 

With  hushing  hand  another  stood — 

Another,   never  seen  before, 

Stood  one  moment  and  no  more  ! 

— Peace,  brethren,  peace  !   to  us  is  given 

Suffering  :   vengeance  is  for  Heaven  ! 


LINES     WRITTEN    BESIDE     THE     LA  GO 
VARESE. 

(See  Henry  Taylor's  Poem,  entitled  "  Lago  Varese.") 


STILL  rise  around  that  lake  well  sung 

New  growths  as  boon  and  good 
As   when,  by  sunshine  saddened,  long 

Beside  its  margin  stood 

That  northern  youth,  and  o'er  it  breathed  a  lay 
Which   praised  things  beauteous,  mourning  their  de 
cay. 


126      LINES   WRITTEN  BESIDE    THE   LA  GO    VARESE. 
II. 

As  then  great  Nature,   "kind  to   sloth," 

Lets  drop  o'er  all  the  land 
Her  gifts,  the  fair  and  fruitful  both, 

Into  the  sleeper's  hand  : 

On  golden  ground  once  more  she  paints  as  then 
The  cistus  bower,  and  convent-brighten'd  glen. 

in. 

Still  o'er  fhe  flashing  waters  lean 

The  mulberry  and  the  maize, 
And  roof  of  vines  whose  purple  screen 

Tempers  those  piercing  rays, 
Which  here  forego  their  fiercer  shafts,  and  sleep, 
Subdued,  in  crimson   cells,  and  verdurous   chambers 
deep. 


IV. 

And  still  in  many  a  sandy  creek 

Light  waves  run  on  and  up, 
While  the  foam-bubbles  winking  break 

Around  their  channell'd  cup  : 
Against  the  rock  they  toss  the  bleeding  gourd, 
Or  fret  on  marble  stair  and  skiff  unmoor'd. 


Fulfill'd  thus  far  the  Poet's   words  :— 
And  yet  a  truth,  that  hour 

By  him  unsung,  upon  his  chords 
Descends,  their  ampler  dower. 


LINES   WRITTEN   BESIDE    THE  LA  GO   VARESE.      I2/ 

Of  Nature's  cyclic  life  he  sang,   nor  knew 
That  frailer    shape    he    mourn'd    should    bloom  per 
petual  too. 

VI. 

There  still— not  skilful  to  retract 

A  glance  as  kind  as  keen — 
By  the  same  southern  sunset  back'd 

There   still  that  Maid  is  seen  : 
Through    song's   high   grace  there  stands  she !    from 

her  eyes 
Still  beams  the  cordial  mirth,  the  unshamed  surprise  ! 

VII. 

Not  yet  those  parted  lips  remit 

A  smile  that  grows  and  grows : 
The  Titianic  morning  yet 

Breaks  from  that  cheek  of  rose  : 
Still  from  her  locks  the  breeze  its  sweetness  takes  : — 
Around    her    white   feet    still    the    ripple    fawns   and 
rakes. 

VIII. 

And,  bright'ning  in  the  radiance  cast 

By  her  on  all  around, 
That  shore  lives   on,  while  song  may  last, 

Love-consecrated  ground  ; 

.Lives  like  that  isthmus,  headland  half,  half  isle, 
Which  smiled  to  meet  Catullus'  homeward  smile. 

IX. 

O   Sirmio  !   thou  that  shedd'st  thy  fame 
O'er  old  Verona's  lake, 


125      LINES    WRITTEN  BESIDE    THE   LA  GO    VARESE. 

Henceforth  Varese  without  blame 

Thine  honors   shall  partake : 

A  Muse  hath  sung  her,  on  whose  front  with  awe 
Thy  nymphs   had    gazed   as   though    great   Virtue's 

self  they  saw  ! 

x. 

What  Shape  is  that,  though  fair  severe, 

Which  fleets  triumphant  by 

Imaged  in  yonder  mirror  clear, 

And  seeks  her  native  sky, 

With  locks  succinct  beneath  a  threat'ning  crest — 
Like  Juno  in  the  brow,  like  Pallas  in  the  breast? 

XI. 

A  Muse  that  flatters  nothing  base 

In  man,  nor  aught  infirm, 
"Sows  the  slow  olive  for  a  race 

Unborn."     The  destined  germ, 
The  germ  alone  of  Fame  she  plants,  nor  cares 
What  time   that  secular    tree    its    deathless   fruitage 
bears ;  ^ 

XII. 

Pleased  rather  with  her  function  sage— 

To  interpret  Nature's  heart  ; 
The  words  on  Wisdom's  sacred  page 

To  wing,  through  metric  art, 
With  life  ;    and  in  a  chariot  of  sweet  sound 
Down-trodden    Truth    to    lift,    and   waft,    the   world 
around. 


WRITTEN  NEAR   SHELLEY'S  HOUSE.  129 


XIII. 

Hail  Muse,  whose  crown,  soon  won  or  late, 

Is  Virtue's,  not  thine  own  ! 
Hail  Verse,  that  tak'st  thy  strength  and  state 

From  Thought's  auguster  throne  ! 
Varese  too  would  hail  thee  !     Hark  that  song — 
Her  almond  bowers   it  thrills  and  rings  her  groves 
along  ! 

October  4,  1856. 


LINES    WRITTEN   NEAR    SHELLEY'S 
HOUSE    AT  LERICI. 

DEDICATED    TO    J.    W.    FIELD,    ESQ.,    IN    MEMORY    OF 
A    DAY    PASSED    WITH    HIM    AT    LERICI. 


AND   here   he  paced  !    These  glimmering  pathways 
strewn 

With  faded  leaves  his  light  swift  footsteps  crush'd ; 
The  odor  of  yon  pine  was  o'er  him  blown  : 

Music  went  by  him  in  each  wind  that  brush'd 
Those  yielding  stems  of  ilex  !  Here,  alone, 

He  walk'd  at  noon,  or  silent  stood  and  hush'd 
When  the  ground-ivy  flash'd  the  moonlight  sheen 
Back  from  the  forest  carpet  always  green. 


130  WRITTEN  NEAR   SHELLEY'S  HOUSE. 

XL 

Poised  as  on  air  the  lithe  elastic  bower 

Now  bends,  resilient  now  against  the  wind 
Recoils,  like  Dryads  that  one  moment  cower 

And  rise  the  next  with  loose  locks  unconfined. 
Through  the  dim  roof  like  gems  the  sunbeams  shower ; 
Old  cypress  trunks  the  aspiring  bay-trees  bind, 
And  soon  will  have  them  wholly  underneath  : 
Types  eminent  of  glory  conquering  death. 


in. 

Far  down  upon  the  shelves  and  sands  below 

The  respirations  of  a  southern  sea 
Beat  with  susurrent  cadence,   soft  and  slow  : 

Round  the  grey  cave's  fantastic  imagery, 
In  undulation  eddying  to  and  fro, 

The  purple  waves  on  roll  or  backward  flee  ; 
While,  dew'd  at  each  rebound  with  gentlest  shock, 
The  myrtle  leans  her  green  breast  on  the  rock. 


IV. 

And  here  he  stood  ;   upon  his  face  that  light, 
Stream'd    from    some   furthest   realm    of  luminous 

thought, 
Which  clothed  his  fragile  beauty  with  the  might 

Of  suns  for  ever  rising  !     Here  he  caught 
Visions  divine.     He  saw  in  fiery  flight 

"  The  hound  of  Heaven,"  with  heavenly  vengeance 
fraught, 


WRITTEN  NEAR  SHELLEY'S  HOUSE.  I31 

"  Run  down  the  slanted  sunlight  of  the  morn  " — * 
Prometheus  frown  on  Jove  with  scorn  for  scorn. 

v. 

He  saw  white  Arethusa,  leap  on  leap, 

Plunge  from  the   Acroceraunian  ledges  bare 

With  all  her  torrent  streams,  while  from  the  steep 
Alpheus  bounded  on  her  unaware  : 

Hellas  he  saw,  a  giant  fresh  from  sleep, 

Break  from  the  night  of  bondage  and  despair. 

Who  but  had  sung  as  there  he  stood  and  smiled 

"  Justice  and  truth  have  found  their  winged  child  !"f 

VI. 

Through  cloud  and  wave  and  star  his  insight  keen 
Shone  clear,  and  traced  a  God  in  each  disguise, 

Protean,  boundless.     Like  the  buskinn'd  scene 
All  Nature  rapt  him  into  ecstasies  : 

In  him,  alas  !   had  Reverence  equal  been 
With  Admiration,  those  resplendent  eyes 

Had  wander'd  not  through  all  her  range  sublime 

To  miss  the  one  great  marvel  of  all  time. 

VII. 

The  winds  sang  loud  ;   from  this  Elysian  nest 
He  rose,  and  trod  yon  spine  of  mountains  bleak, 

While  stormy  suns  descending  in  the  west 
Stain'd  as  with  blood  yon  promontory's  beak. 

*  Prometheus  Unbound.  t  Revolt  of  Islam. 


I32  WRITTEN  NEAR   SHELLEY'S  HOUSE. 

That  hour,  responsive  to  his  soul's  unrest, 
Carrara's  marble  summits,  peak  to  peak, 
Sent  forth  their  thunders  like  the  battle-cry 
Of  nations  arming  for  the  victory. 

VIII. 

Visions  that  hour  more  fair  more  false  he  saw 
Than  those  the  mythologic  heaven  that  throng ; 

Mankind  he  saw  exempt  from  faith  and  law, 

Move  godlike  forth,  with  science  wing'd  and  song ; 

He  saw  the  Peoples  spurn  religious  awe, 
Yet  tower  aloft  through  inbred  virtue  strong. 

Ah  Circe !    not  for  sensualists  alone 

Thy  cup  !     It  dips  full  oft  in  Helicon  ! 

IX. 

Mankind  he -saw  one  equal  brotherhood, 

All  things  in  common  held  as  light  and  air  ! — 

"  Vinum  demonum  !" — Just,  and  wise,  and  good — 
Were  man  all  this,  such  freedom  man  might  bear ! 

The  slave  creates  the  tyrant  !     In  man's  blood 
Sin  lurks,  a  panther  couchant  in  his  lair. 

Nature's  confession  came  before  the  Creed's  ; — 

Authority  is  still  man's  first  of  needs. 

x. 

All  things  in  common  ;    equal  all ;   all  free  ! 

Not  fancies  these,  but  gifts  reserved  in  trust. 
A  spiritual  growth  is  Liberty  ; 

Nature,  unnatural  made  through  hate  and  lust, 
Yields  it  no  more  or  chokes  her  progeny 

With  weeds  of  foul  desire  or  fell  disgust. 


WRITTEN  NEAR  SHELLEY'S  HOUSE.  133 

Convents  have  all  things  common  :    but  on  Grace 
They  rest.     Inverted  systems  lack  a  base. 

XI. 

The  more  obedience  to  a  law  divine 

Tempers  the  chaos  of  man's  heart,  the  less 

Becomes  his  need  of  outward  discipline 
The  balance  of  injustice  to  redress. 

"  Wild  Bacchanals  of  Truth's  mysterious  wine  "* 
Must  bear  the  Maenad's  waking  bitterness. 

Anticipate  not  heaven.     Not  great  thy  worth 

Heaven  without  holiness,  and  heaven  on  earth  ! 

XII. 

Alas  !  the  errors  thus  to  truth  so  near 

That    sovereign    truths     they    are,    though    misap 
plied, 
Errors  to  pure  but  passionate  natures  dear, 

Errors  by  aspirations  glorified, 
Errors  with  radiance  crown'd  like  Lucifer 

Ere  fall'n,  like  him  to   darkness   changed   through 

pride, 

These  of  all  errors  are  the  heart  and  head  ; — 
The  strength  of  life  is  theirs  ;   yet  they  are  dead  ! 

XIII. 

That  Truth  Reveal'd,  by  thee  in  madness  spurn'd, 
Plato,  thy  master  in  the  walks  of  light, 

Had  knelt  to  worship  !     For  its  day  he  yearn'd 
Through  the  long  hungry  watches  of  the  night : 

*  Shelley's  Ode  to  Liberty. 


134  WRITTEN  NEAR   SHELLEY'S  HOUSE. 

Its  dawn  in  Thought's  assumptions  he  discern'd 

Silvering  hoar  contemplation's   star-loved  height ; 
The   God- Man  came  !     Alas  !  thy  phantasy, 
A  Man-God  feigning,  storm'd  against  His  sky. 

XIV. 

Sorrowing  for  thee,  with  sorrow  joy  is  mix'd, 

With  triumph  shame  !      Our  hopes  themselves  are 
sad; 

But  fitful  lustres  break  the  shades  betwixt ; 
So  gleams  yon  olive  bower,  in  mourning  clad, 

And  yet  at  times  with  showery  gleams   transfix'd, 
That  opal  among  trees  which  grave  or  glad 

Its  furtive  splendor  half  reveal'd  or  wholly 

Shoots  ever  from  a  base  of  melancholy. 

xv. 

Our  warfare   is   in  darkness.     Friend  for  foe 

Blindly,  and  oft  with  swords  exchanged,  we  strike  : 

Opinion  guesses  :    Faith   alone   can   know 
Where  actual  and  illusive  still  are  like. 

Thine  was  that  strength  which  fever  doth  bestow  ; 
The  madness  thine  of  one  that,  fever-sick, 

Beats  a  sad  mother  in  clistemper'd  sleep : 

Perhaps  death  woke  thee,  on  her  breast  to  weep  ! 

XVI. 

Thee  from  that  Mother  sins  ancestral  tore  ! — 
No  heart  hadst  thou,  from  Faith's  sole  guide  remote, 

With  statutable  worship  to  adore, 

Or  learn  a  nation-licensed  Creed  by  rote  ; 


WRITTEN  NEAR   SHELLEY'S  HOUSE.  I  35 

No  heart  to  snatch  thy  gloss  of  sacred  lore 
From  the  blind  prophet  of  the  public  vote. 
Small  help  from  such  in  life,   or  when  thy  pyre 
Cast  far  o'er  reddening  waves  its  mirror'd  fire  ! 

XVII. 

Hark  !     She  thou  knew'st  not  mourns  thee  !     Slowly 
tolls, 

As  sinks  the  sun,  yon  church-tower  o'er  the  sea : 
Abroad  once  more  the  peal  funereal  rolls, 

And   Spezzia  now  responds  to   Lerici. 
This  day  is  sacred  to  Departed  Souls  ; 

This  day  the  Dead  alone  are  great;   and  we 
Who  live,  or  seem  to  live,  but  live  to  plead 
For  the  departed  myriads  at  their  need. 

XVIII. 

Behold,  the  long  procession  scales  the  rock  ; 

In  the  red  glare  dusk  banners  sadly  wave  ! 
Behold,  the  lambs  of  the  immaculate  flock 

Fling  flowers  on  noted  and  on  noteless  grave  ! 
O  Cross  !    sole  Hope  that  dost  not  woo  to  mock ! 

Some,  some  that  knew  thee  not  thou  liv'st  to  save — 
All  spirits  not  wholly — by  their  own  decree — 
From  infinite  Love  exiled,  and  lost  to  thee  ! 

All  Souls'  Day,  1856. 


136  SONNETS. 


SONNETS. 

IRISH   COLONIZATION."1 
1848. 


ENGLAND,  thy  sinful  past  hath  found  thee  out ! 

Washed  was    the    blood-stain   from    the    perfumed 
hand: 

O'er  lips  self-righteous  smiles  demure  and  bland 
Flickered,  though  still  thine  eye  betrayed  a  doubt, 
When  round  thy  palace  rose  a  People's  shout — 

"Famine  makes  lean   the   Helots'  helpless  land." 

What  made  them  Helots  ?  Gibbet,  scourge,  and  brand, 
Plaguing  with  futile  rage  a  Faith  devout. 

England  !  six  hundred  tyrannous  years  and  more, 
Trampling  a  prostrate  realm,  that  strength  out-trod, 

Which   twenty   years  availed  not  to    restore. 
Thou  ivert  thy  brother's  keeper — from  the  sod 

His  life-blood  crieth.     Expiate  thou  that  crime, 

Or  bear  a  branded  brow  throughout  all  time. 

ii. 

Fell  the  tall  pines  !— thou  nobler  Argo,  leap, 
Wide-winged  deliverer,  on  the  ocean  floods  ; 
And  westward  waft  the  astonished  multitudes 

*  State  assistance  to  Emigration,  if  conceded  during  the  Famine  years, 
would  have  diminished  the  necessity  for  that  enormous  emigration  wit 
nessed  subsequently  to  them,  while  it  also  diminished  the  mortality  which 
accompanied  the  Emigration  of  those  years. 


SONXETS.  137 

That  rot  inert,  and  hideous  Sabbath  keep ; 

Or,  stung  to  madness,  guiltier  ruin  heap 

On  their  own  heads.     No  longer  fabled  Gods 
Subdue   vext  waves   with  tridents  and  pearl  rods  ; 

Yet  round   that  bark  heroic  Gods  shall  sweep, 

And  guard  an  infant    Nation.     Hope    shall   flush 

With  far  Hesperean   welcome  billows  hoary  : 

Valor  and  virtue,  love  and  joy,  and  glory, 

A   storm-borne  Iris,  shall  before  you  rush  ; 

And  there  descending,  where  your  towers  shall  stand, 

Look  back,  full-faced,  and  shout,  "  Britannia,  land  ! " 

in. 

I  heard,  in  deep  prophetic  trance  immersed, 
The  wave,  keel-cut,  kissing  the  ship's  dark  side : — 
Anon  men  shouted,  and  the  cliffs  replied  : 

O  what   a  vision  from  the  darkness  burst ! 

Europe  so  fair  a  city  never  nursed 
As  met  me  there  !     It  clasped  in  crescent  wide 
The  gulf,  it  crowned  the  isles,  the   subject  tide 

O'er-strode  with  bridges,  and  with  quays  coerced. 

In  marble  from  unnumbered  mountains  robed, 
With  altar-shaped  Acropolis  and  crest, 

There  sat  the  queenly  City,  throned  and  globed  : 
Full  well  that  beaming  countenance  expressed 

The  soul  of  a  great  people.     From  its  eye 

Shone  forth  a  second  Britain's  empery. 

IV. 

How  looks  a   mother  on   her  babe,   a  bard 

On  some  life-labored    song?     With  humble  pride, 
And   self-less   love,   and  joy  to   awe  allied : — 


138  SONNETS. 

So  should  a  State  that  severed  self  regard, 

Her  child  beyond   the  waves.     Great  Nature's  ward, 

And  Time's,  that  child  one  day,  with  God  for  guide, 

Shall  waft   its   parent's    image   far   and   wide  ; 
Yea,    and   its    Maker's,    if  by   sin   unmarred. 

Conquest    I    deem  a   vulgar   pastime  :  trade 
Shifts  like  the  winds  ;    and  power  but  comes  to  go  : 
But   this   is   glorious,  o'er   the    earth    to  sow 

The   seed   of  Nations  :    darkness  to  invade 
With  light :  to  plant,  where  silence  reigned  and  death, 
The  thrones  of  British  law  and  towers  of  Christian 
faith. 

v. 

England,  magnanimous  art  thou  in  name  : 
Magnanimous  in  nature  once  thou  wert ; 
But  that  which  ofttimes  lags  behind  desert, 

And  crowns  the  dead,  as  oft  survives  it — fame. 

Can  she  whose  hand  a  merchant's  pen  makes  tame, 
Or  sneer  of  nameless  scribe  ;  can  she  whose  heart 
In  camp  or  senate  still  is  at  the  mart, 

A  Nation's  toils,   a  Nation's   honors   claim  ? 

Thy  shield  of  old  torn  Poland  twice  and  thrice 

Invoked  :  thy  help  as  vainly   Ireland  asks, 
Pointing  with  stark,  lean  finger,  from  the   crest 
Of  western  cliffs  plague-stricken,  to  the  West — 

Grey-haired   though   young.      When   heat   is    sucked 

from   ice, 
Then  shall  a  Firm  discharge  a  Nation's  tasks. 


THE    YEAR   OF  SORROW.  139 


THE   YEAR    OF   SORROW—  IRELAND— 1849. 


I. — SPRING. 


ONCE  more,  through  God's  high  will,  and  grace 

Of  hours  that  each  its  task  fulfils, 
Heart-healing  Spring  resumes  her  place, 

The  valley  throngs  and  scales  the  hills ; 

ii. 

In  vain.     From  earth's  deep  heart  o'ercharged 
The  exulting  life  runs  o'er  in  flowers  ; 

The  slave   unfed  is  unenlarged: 

In  darkness  sleep  a  Nation's  powers. 

in. 

Who  knows  not  Spring  ?    Who  doubts,  when  blows 
Her  breath,  that  Spring  is  come  indeed  ? 

The  swallow  doubts  not ;    nor  the  rose 
That  stirs,  but  wakes  not ;    nor  the  weed. 

IV. 

I  feel  her  near,  but  see  her  not; 

For  these  with  pain  uplifted  eyes 
Fall  back  repulsed,  and  vapors  blot 

The  vision  of  the  earth  and  skies. 


140  THE    YEAR   OF  SORROW. 

V. 

I  see  her  not — I  feel  her  near, 
As,  charioted  in  mildest  airs, 

She  sails  through  yon  empyreal  sphere, 
And  in  her  arms  and  bosom  bears 


VI. 


That  urn  of  flowers  and  lustral  dews 

Whose  sacred  balm,  o'er  all  things  shed, 

Revives  the  weak,  the  old  renews, 

And  crowns  with  votive  wreaths  the  dead. 

VII. 

Once  more  the  cuckoo's  call  I  hear; 

I  know,  in  many  a  glen  profound, 
The  earliest  violets  of  the  year 

Rise  up  like  water  from  the  ground. 

VIII. 

The  thorn  I  know  once  more  is  white ; 

And,  far  down  many  a  forest  dale, 
The  anemones  in  dubious  light 

Are  trembling  like  a  bridal  veil. 

IX. 

By  streams  released  that  singing  flow 
From  craggy  shelf  through  sylvan  glades 

The  pale  narcissus,  well  I  know, 

Smiles  hour  by  hour  on  greener  shades. 


THE   YEAR  OF  SORROW.  1 41 

X. 

The  honeyed  cowslip  tufts  once  more 
The  golden  slopes  ;  with  gradual  ray 

The  primrose  stars  the  rock,  and  o'er 
The  wood-path  strews  its  milky  way. 

XI. 

From  ruined  huts  and  holes  come  forth 

Old  men,  and  look  upon  the  sky ! 
The  Power  Divine  is  on  the  earth  : 

Give  thanks  to  God  before  ye  die ! 

XII. 

And  ye,  O  children  worn  and  weak  ! 

Who  care  no  more  with  flowers  to  play, 
Lean  on  the  grass  your  cold,  thin  cheek, 

And  those  slight  hands,  and  whispering,  say, 

XIII. 

"  Stern  Mother  of  a  race  unblest, 

"  In  promise  kindly,  cold  in  deed, — 
"Take  back,  O  Earth,  into  thy  breast, 

"The  children  whom  thou  wilt  not  feed." 

II. — SUMMER. 
I. 

APPROVED  by  works  of  love  and  might, 
The  Year,  consummated  and  crowned, 

Has  scaled  the  zenith's  purple  height, 
And  flings  his  robe  the  earth  around. 


142  THE    YEAR   OF  SORROW. 

II. 

Impassioned  stillness — fervors  calm — 

Brood,  vast  and  bright,  o'er  land  and  deep 

The  warrior  sleeps  beneath  the  palm  ; 
The  dark-eyed  captive  guards  his  sleep. 

in. 

The  Iberian  laborer  rests  from  toil ; 

Sicilian  virgins  twine  the  dance  ; 
Laugh  Tuscan  vales  in  wine    and  oil ; 

Fresh  laurels  flash  from  brows  of  France. 

IV. 

Far  off,  in  regions  of  the  North, 
The  hunter  drops  his  winter  fur; 

Sun-stricken  babes  their  feet  stretch  forth  ; 
And  nested  dormice  feebly  stir. 

v. 

But  thou,  O  land  of  many  woes  ! 

What  cheer  is  thine  ?     Again  the  breath 
Of  proved  Destruction  o'er  thee  blows, 

And  sentenced  fields  grow  black  in  death. 

VI. 

In  horror  of  a  new  despair 

His  blood-shot  eyes  the  peasant  strains, 
With  hands  clenched  fast,  and  lifted  hair, 

Along  the  daily-darkening  plains. 


THE    YEAR  OF  SORROW.  1 43 

VII. 

"  Why  trusted  he  to  them  his  store  ? 

"  Why  feared  he  not  the  scourge  to  come  ?" 
Fool !    turn  the  page  of  History  o'er — 
The  roll  of  Statutes— and  be  dumb  ! 


VIII. 

Behold,  O  People  !   thou  shalt  die  ! 

What  art  thou  better  than  thy  sires  ? 
The  hunted  deer  a  weeping  eye 

Turns  on  his  birthplace,  and  expires. 

IX. 

Lo!   as  the  closing  of  a  book, 
Or  statue  from  its  base  o'erthrown, 

Or  blasted  wood,  or  dried-up  brook, 
Name,  race,  and  nation,  thou  art  gone. 

x. 

The  stranger  shall  thy  hearth  possess  ; 

The  stranger  build  upon  thy  grave  • 
But  know  this  also — he,  not  less, 

His  limit  and  his  term  shall  have. 


XI. 

Once  more  thy  volume,  open  cast, 

In  thunder  forth  shall  sound  thy  name  ; 

Thy  forest,  hot  at  heart,  at  last 
God's  breath  shall  kindle  into  flame. 


144  THE  YEAR  OF  SORROW, 

XII. 

Thy  brook  dried  up  a  cloud  shall  rise, 
And  stretch  an  hourly  widening  hand. 

In  God's  good  vengeance,  through  the  skies, 
And  onward  o'er  the  Invader's  land. 

XIII. 

Of  thine,  one  day,  a  remnant  left 
Shall  "raise  o'er  earth  a  Prophet's  rod, 

And  teach  the  coasts  of  Faith  bereft 
The  names  of  Ireland,  and  of  God. 


III. — AUTUMN. 


THEN  die,  thou  Year — thy  work  is  done : 
The  work  ill  done  is  done  at  last. 

Far  off,  beyond  that  sinking  sun 
Which  sets  in  blood,   I  hear  the  blast 

ii. 

That  sings  thy  dirge,  and  says — "Ascend, 
"  And  answer  make  amid  thy  peers, 

(Since  all  things  here  must  have  an  end,) 
"  Thou  latest  of  the  famine  years  !" 

in. 

I  join  that  voice.     No  joy  have  I 
In  all  thy  purple  and  thy  gold ; 

Nor  in  that  nine-fold  harmony 
From  forest  on  to  forest  rolled  : 


THE    YEAR   OF  SORROW.  1 45 

IV. 

Nor  in  that  stormy  western  fire, 

Which  burns  on  ocean's  gloomy  bed, 

And  hurls,  as  from  a  funeral  pyre, 

A  glare  that  strikes  the  mountain's  head  ; 


And  writes  on  low-hung  clouds  its  lines 
Of  cyphered  flame,  with  hurrying  hand ; 

And  flings  amid  the  topmost  pines 

That  crown  the  steep,  a  burning  brand. 

VI. 

Make  answer,  Year,  for  all  thy  dead, 
Who  found  not  rest  in  hallowed  earth; 

The  widowed  wife,  the  father  fled, 
The  babe  age-stricken  from  his  birth. 

VII. 

Make  answer,  Year,  for  virtue  lost; 

For  courage  proof  'gainst  fraud  and  force 
Now  waning  like  a  noontide  ghost ; 

Affections  poisoned  at  their  source. 

VIII. 

The  laborer  spurned  his  lying  spade; 

The  yeoman  spurned  his  useless  plough ; 
The  pauper  spurned  the  unwholesome  aid, 

Obtruded  once,  exhausted  now. 


146  THE    YEAR   OF  SORROW. 

IX. 

The  roof-trees  fall  of  hut  and  hall, 
I   hear  them  fall,  and  falling  cry, 
"  One  fate  for  each,  one  fate  for  all ; 
So  wills  the   Law  that  willed  a  lie." 

x. 

Dread  power  of  Man  !   what  spread  the  waste 
In  circles  hour  by  hour  more  wide, 

And  would  not  let  the  past  be  past  ? — 
The  Law  that  promised  much,  and  lied. 

XI. 

Dread  power  of  God  !    Whom  mortal  years 
Nor  touch,  nor  tempt  ;    Who  sitt'st  sublime 

In  night  of  night, — O  bid   thy  spheres 
Resound  at  last  a  funeral  chime  ! 

XII. 

Call  up  at  last  the  afflicted  race, 
Whom  man,  not  God,  abolished. — Sore, 

For  centuries,  their  strife  :    the  place 

That  knew  them  once  shall  know  no  more  ! 


IV. — WINTER. 
I. 

FALL,  snow,  and  cease  not  !     Flake  by  flake 
The  decent  winding-sheet  compose. 

Thy  task  is  just  and  pious  ;   make 
An  end  of  blasphemies  and  woes. 


THE    YEAR  OF  SORROW.  1 47 

II. 

Fall  flake  by  flake  !   by  thee  alone, 

Last  friend,  the  sleeping  draught  is  given  : 

Kind  nurse,  by  thee  the  couch  is  strewn, 
The  couch  whose  covering  is  from  heaven. 

III. 

Descend  and  clasp  the  mountain's  crest  ; 

Inherit  plain  and  valley  deep  : 
This  night  on  thy  maternal  breast 

A  vanquished  nation  dies  in  sleep. 


Lo  !   from  the  starry  Temple  Gates 

Death  rides,  and  bears  the  flag  of  peace  :' 

The  combatants  he  separates  ; 
He  bids  the  wrath  of  ages  cease. 

v. 

Descend,  benignant  Power  !     But  O, 
Ye  torrents,  shake  no  more  the  vale  : 

Dark  streams,  in  silence  seaward  flow  : 
Thou  rising  storm,  remit  thy  wail. 

VI. 

Shake  not,  to-night,  the  cliffs  of  Moher, 

Nor  Brandon's  base,  rough  sea  !     Thou  Isle, 

The  Rite  proceeds  !     From  shore  to  shore, 
Hold  in  thy  gathered  breath  the  while. 


148  THE    YEAR  OF  SORROW. 


VII. 


Fall,  snow  !  in  stillness  fall,  like  dew, 
On  church's  roof  and  cedar's  fan  ; 

And  mould  thyself  on  pine  and  yew  ; 
And  on  the  awful  face  of  man. 


VIII. 


Without  a  sound,  without  a  stir, 

In  streets  and  wolds,  on  rock  and  mound, 
O,  omnipresent  Comforter, 

By  thee,  this  night,  the  lost  are  found  ! 


IX. 


On  quaking  moor,  and  mountain  moss 
With  eyes  upstaring  at  the  sky, 

And  arms  extended  like  a  cross, 
The  long-expectant  sufferers  lie. 


x. 


Bend  o'er  them,  white-robed  Acolyte  ! 

Put  forth  thine  hand  from  cloud  and  mist ; 
And  minister  the  last  sad  Rite, 

Where  altar  there  is  none,  nor  priest. 


XI. 


Touch  thou  the  gates  of  soul  and  sense  ; 

Touch  darkening  eyes  and  dying  ears  ; 
Touch  stiffening  hands  and  feet,  and  thence 

Remove  the  trace  of  sins  and  tears. 


WIDOWHOOD.  149 


XII. 


And  ere  thou  seal  those  filmed  eyes, 
Into  God's  urn  thy  fingers  dip, 

And  lay,  'mid  eucharistic  sighs, 
The  sacred  wafer  on  the  lip. 


XIII. 


This  night  the  Absolver  issues  forth  : 
This  night  the  Eternal  Victim  bleeds  : 

O  winds  and  woods — O  heaven  and  earth  ! 
Be  still  this  night.     The  Rite  proceeds  ! 


WIDOWHOOD. 
1848. 

NOT  thou  alone,  but  all  things  fair  and  good, 
Live  here  bereft,  in  vestal  widowhood, 
Or  wane  in  radiant  circlet  incomplete. 
Memory,  in  widow's  weeds,  with  naked  feet, 
Stands  on  a  tombstone.     Hope,  with  tearful  eyes, 
Stares  all  night  long  on  unillumined  skies. 
Virtue,  an  orphan,  begs  from  door  to  door. 
Beside  a  cold  hearth,  on  a  stranger's  floor, 
Sits  exiled  Honor.     Song,  a  vacant  type, 
Hangs  on  that  tree,  whose  fruitage  ne'er  was  ripe, 
Her  harp,  and  bids  the  casual  wind  thereon 
Lament  what  might  be,  fabling  what  is  gone. 
Our  childhood's  world  of  wonder  melts  like  dew  ; 


1 5  O  WIDO  WHOOD. 

Youth's  guardian  genius  bids  our  youth  adieu  ; 

And  oft  the  wedded  is  a  widow  too. 

The  best  of  bridals  here  is  but  a  troth. — 

Only  in  heaven  is  ratified  the  oath  : 

There,  there  alone,  is  clasped  in  full  fruition 

That  sacred  joy  which  passed  not  Eden's  gates  : 
For  here  the  soul  is  mocked  with  dream  and  vision 

And  outward  sense,  uniting,  separates. 
The  Bride  of  Brides,  a  maid  and  widow  here, 
Invokes  her  Lord,  and  finds — a  Comforter  : — 
Her  loftiest  fane  is  but  a  visible  porch 
To  sealed  Creation's  omnipresent  Church. 


Zealous  that  nobler  gifts  than  earth's  should  live, 
Fortune   I  praise — but  praise  her,  fugitive. 
The  Roman  praised  her  permanent  ;*   but  we 
Have  learned  her  lore  (and  paid  a  heavy  fee), 
Have  tracked  her  promise  to  its  brake  of  wiles, 
And  sounded  all  the  shallows  of  her  smiles. 
Fortune  not  gives  but  sells,  and  takes  instead 
A  heart  made  servile,  and  a  discrowned  head. 
Too  soon  she  comes,  and  drowns  in  swamps  of  sloth 
The  soul  contemplative  and  active — both  ; 
Or  comes  too  late,  and,  with  malignant  art, 
Leaps  on  the  lance  that  rives  the  sufferer's  heart, 
Showering  her  affluence  on  a  breast  supine. 
Her  best  of  gifts  the  usurer's  seal  and  sign 
Sustain,  and  pawn  man's  life  to  Destiny. 
Ah  !    mightier  things  than  man  like  man  can  die  ! 

*  "  Laudo  manentem."— HORACE. 


WIDOWHOOD.  1S1 

Between  the  ruin  and  the  work  half  done 
I  sit  :    the  raw  wreck  is  the  sorrier  one 
Here  drops  old  Desmond's  Keep  in  slow  decay : 
There  the  unfinished  Mole  is  washed  away. 
The  moment's  fickle  promise,  and  the  vast 
And  consummated  greatness, — both  are  past. 
We  sink,  and  none  is  better  for  our  fall  : 
We  suffer  most :    but  suffering  comes  to  all  : 
Our  sighs  but  echoes  are  of  earlier  sighs  ; 
And  in  our  agonies  we  plagiarize. 
O'er  all  the  earth  old  States  in  ruin  lie, 
And  new  Ambitions  topple  from  their  sky  : 
Greatness  walks  lame  while  clad  in  mortal  mould  ; 
The  good  are  weak — unrighteous  are  the  bold. 
Love  by  Self-love  is  murdered,  or  Distrust  ; 
And  earth-born  Virtue  has  its  "dust  to  dust." 
This  Ireland  knows.     The  famine  years  go  by, 
And  each  its  ranks  of  carnage  heaps  more  high  : 
What  voice  once  manly  and  what  hand  once  strong 
Arraigns,  resists,  or  mitigates  the  wrong  ? 
The  future  shall  be  as  the  present  hour  : 
The  havoc  past,  again  the  slaves  of  Power 
Shall  boast  because  once  more  the  harvest  waves 
In  fraudulent  brightness  o'er  a  million  graves. 
Why  weep  for  ties  once  ours,  relaxed  or  broken  ? 
If  weep  we  must,  our  tears  are  all  bespoken : 
One  thing  is  worthy  of  them,  one  alone — 
A  world's  inherent  baseness,  and  our  own. 


Type  of  my  country,  sad,  and  chaste,  and  wise  ! 
Forgive  the  gaze  of  too  regardful  eyes  : 


I52       THE  IRISH  GAEL    TO   THE  IRISH  NORMAN. 

I  saw  the  black  robe  and  the  aspect  pale, 
And  heard  in  dream  that  country's  dying  wail. 
Like  Night  her  form  arose, — as  shades  in  night 
Are    lost,    thy    sorrowing   beauty   vanished    from    my 
sight. 


THE  IRISH  GAEL    TO    THE  IRISH  NOR 
MAN  * 

OR,    THE    LAST    IRISH    CONFISCATION. 
1850. 

YOUR  bark  in  turn  is  freighted.     O'er  the  seas 
You  seek  a  refuge  at  the  Antipodes. 
Australia  waits  you.     O  my  Lord,  beware  ! 
Australia  !     Floats  not  England's  standard  there  ? 
Tyrconnell  and  Tyrone  found  rest  more  nigh  : 
Shrined  on  Saint  Peter's  Mountf  their  ashes  lie. 
Their  cause  is  mine — and  foes,  till  now,   were  we  ; 
Now  friends,  ashamed  were  I  thy  shame  to  see. 
Has  Ruin  no  decorum  ?     Grief  no  sense  ? 
Shall    England    house    thee  ?      England   drives    thee 
hence  ! 


*  Toward  the  end  of  the  Irish  Famine  many  estates  were  precipitated 
on  the  market  and  sold  for  half  their  value,  owing  to  a  course  of  legisla 
tion  which  their  proprietors  denounced  as  confiscation.  This  poem  was 
written  on  hearing  that  a  nobleman  thus  suddenly  reduced  to  ruin  was 
about  to  emigrate  to  Australia.  It  is  dramatic  in  its  scope,  and  repre 
sents  the  feelings  with  which  the  descendant  of  some  great  House  dis 
possessed  in  old  times  might  contemplate  the  ruin  of  one  belonging  to  the 
later  Race. 

t  San  Pietro  in  Montorio. 


THE  IRISH  GAEL  TO  THE  IRISH  NORMAN.       153 

O  worker  of  thy  sorrows,  with  a  vow 

Bind  thou  that  head  reduced,  and  careful  brow, 

Wholly  to  root  that  idol  from  thy  heart : 

Swear  that  thy  race  never  shall  have  a  part 

In  aught  that  England  boasts,  achieves,  confers  : 

Her  past  is  thine — thy  future  is  no4-  hers. 

Loosed  from  the  agony  of  fruitless  strife 
You  stand,  a  lost  man  'mid  the  wreck  of  life, 
And  round  you  gaze.     Sad  Eva  also  gazed 
All  round  that  bridal  field  of  blood,  amazed  ; — 
Spoused  to  new  fortunes.     But  your  head  is  gray  ! 
Beyond  your  castle  droops  the  dying  day  ; 
And,  drifting  down  loose  gusts  of  wailing  wind, 
Night  comes,  with  rain  before  and  frost  behind. 
Lean  men  that  groped  for  sea-weeds  on  the  shore 
All  day,  now  hide  in  holes  on  fen  and  moor. 
The  cliffs  lean  forth  their  brows  to  meet  the  scourge 
Of  blast  on  blast :    around  their  base  the  surge 
Welters  in  shades  from  iron  headlands  thrown  : 
Through  chasm  and  cave  subaqueous  thunders  moan — 
That  sound  thou  lov'st !     Once  more  the  Desmonds 

fall: 

To-night  old  Wrongs  shake  hands  in  History's  hall ; 
And,  clashing  through  responsive  vaults  of  Time, 
Old  peals  funereal  marry  chime  to  chime. 
Of  such  no  more  !     Beside  your  fireless  hearth 
Sit  one  night  yet :    and,  moody  or  in  mirth, 
Compare  the  past  and  present,  and  record 
The  fortunes  of  your  Order  in  a  word. 
England  first  used,  then  spurned  it !     Hour  by  hour, 
For  centuries  her  laws,  her  fame,  her  power 


154      THE  IRISH  GAEL   TO  THE  IRISH  NORMAN. 

Hung  on  its  hand.     It  gloried  to  sustain, 

High  o'er  the  clouds  that  sweep  the  Atlantic  main, 

The  banner  with  her  blazonries  enrolled  : 

Then  came  the  change,  and  ye  were  bought  and  sold : 

Then  came  the  change,  and  ye  received  your  due. 

Sir,  to  your  country  had  ye  proved  as  true 

As  to  your  England,  she  had  held  by  you  : 

Ruin  ye  might  have  proved  ;    ye  might  have  known 

Even  then,  the  scorn  of  others— not  your  own  ! 

Pardon  hard  words.     Your  Race,  not  mine,  is  hard : 
But  wounds  and  work  the  hand  too  soft  have  scarred : 
We  are  your  elders — first-born  in  distress  ; 
And  century-seasoned  woes  grow  pitiless. 
Hierarchs  are  we  in  pain,  where  ye  but  learn  : 
We  have  an  Unction,  and  our  Rite  is  stern. 
If  on  our  brows  still  hang  ancestral  glooms, 
Forgive  the  children  of  the  Catacombs. 
What  have  the  dead  to  do  with  love  or  ruth  ? 
I  died ;   and  live  once  more — I  live  for  Truth  : 
Hope  and  delusion  trouble  me  no  more  : 
Therefore,  expatriate  on  my  native  shore, 
Anguish  and  doubt  shake  other  nerves,  not  mine  : 
I   drop  no  tear  into  the  bitter  brine  : 
The  world  in  which   I  move  is  masculine. 

Why  to  Australia?     Britain  too  was  dear — 
Must,  then,  the  Britain  of  the  southern  sphere 
Rack  you  in  turn  ?     Seek  you  once  more  to  prove 
The  furies  of  a  scorned,  unnatural  love 
That  cleaves  to  insult,  and  on  injury  feeds, 
And,  upon  both  cheeks  stricken,  burns  and  bleeds  ? 


THE  IRISH  GAEL   TO  THE  IRISH  NORMAN.       155 

Son  of  the  North,  why  seek  you  not  once  more 
The  coasts  where  sang  the  warrior  Scald  of  yore  ? 
If  unhistoric  regions  you  must  tread, 
Hallowed  by  no  communion  with  the  dead, 
Never  by  saint,  or  sage,  or  hero  trod  ; 
Where  never  lifted  fane  upraised  to   God 
In  turn,  the  hearts  of  sequent  generations, 
Where  never  manly  races  rose  to  nations, 
Marshalled  by  knightly  arm  or  kingly  eye  ; 
If,  with  new  fortunes,  a  new  earth  you  try, 
Then  seek,  oh,  seek  her  in  her  purity  ! 
Drain  not  civilization's  dregs  and  lees. 
In  many  an  island  dipt  by  tropic  seas, 
Nature  keeps  yet  a  race  by  arts  untamed, 
Who  live  half-innocent  and  unashamed. 
Ambition  frets  not  them.     In  regions  calm, 
'Mid  prairies  vast,  or  under  banks  of  palm, 
They  sing  light  wars  and  unafflicting  loves, 
And  vanish  as  the  echo  leaves  the  groves  ! 
Smooth  space  divides  their  cradles  and  their  graves. 
What  are  they  ?     Apparitions — casual  waves 
Heaved  up  in  life's  successive  harmony  ! 
Brief  smiles  of  nature  followed  by  a  sigh  ! 
Why  not  with  such  abide  awhile  and  die  ? 


O,  summoned  are  thy  death  to  that  repose 
The  grave  concedes  to  others  !  by  thy  foes 
Franchised  with  that  which  friendship  never  gave — 
A  heart  as  free  from  tremors  as  the  grave  ! 
Last  of  a  race  whose  helm  and  lance  were  known 
In  furthest  lands — now  exiled  from  thine  own — 


I56       THE  IRISH  GAEL    TO   THE  IRISH  NORMAN. 

Give  thanks  !     How  many  a  sight  is  spared  to  thee, 
Which  we,  thy  sires  in  suffering,  saw  and  see  ! 
Thou  hast  beheld  thy  country,  by  the  shocks 
Of  three  long  winters,  driven  upon  the  rocks 
High  and  more  high.     Thou  shalt  not,  day  by  day, 
See  her  dismembered  planks,  the  wrecker's  prey, 
Abused  without  remorse  to  uses  base  : 
Thou  hast  beheld  the  home  of  all  thy  race, 
Their    lawns,    their    walks,    and     every    grove     and 

stream — 

Their  very  tombs — pass  from  thee  like  a  dream, 
And  leave  thee  bare.     But  thou  shalt  not  behold 
Thy  woods  devastated,  nor  gathering  mould 
Subdue  the  arms  high  hung,  and  blight  the  bloom 
Of  pomps  heraldic,  redd'ning  scroll  and  tomb  ; 
Nor  the  starred  azure  touched  by  mists  cold-lipped, 
Till  choir  and  aisle  are  black  as  vault  and  crypt, 
Nor  from  the  blazoned  missal  wane  and  faint 
The  golden  age  of  martyr,  maid,  and  saint, 
Umbria's  high  pathos,  and  the  Tuscan  might, 
And  all  thy  wondering  childhood's  world  of  light. 
Thou  shalt  not  see  that  Cross  thou  loved'st  so  well 
From  minster  towers  rock-built,  and  hermit's  cell 
Swept  by  the  self-same  blast  that  sent  the  hind 
Shivering  to  caves,  and  struck  a  kingdom  blind  ! 
All  that  was  thine,  while  seas  between  thee  roll 
And  them,  in  some  still  cloister  of  thy  soul 
Shall  live,  as,  in  a  mother's  heart  inisled, 
Lives  on  the  painless  memory  of  a  child 
Buried  a  babe.     One  image  all  shall  make 
Still  as  the  gleam  of  sunset-lighted  lake 


THE  IRISH  GAEL    TO  THE  IRISH  NORMAN.       157 

Kenned  from  a  tower  o'er  leagues  of  wood  and  lawn  ; 
Or  as  perchance  our  planet  looks,  withdrawn 
From  some  pure  spirit  that  leaves  her — to  his  sight 
Lessening,  not  lost — a  disk  of  narrowing  light 
Sole-hung  in  regions  of  pure  space  afar — 
Of  old  the  world  he  lived  in,  now  a  star  ! 

But  the  wind  swells  yon  sails.     Why  waste  we  breath  ? 

My  Lord,  for  thy  soul's  sake,  and  a  good  death, 

Forget  the  things  a  Gael's  unmannered  pen 

For  thee  records  not,  but  for  later  men. 

Since  hope  is  gone,  let  peace  be  thine  instead. 

The  snows  which  heap  too  soon  that  Norman  head, 

Should  calm  it ;  and  a  heart  that  bleeds  for  aye 

Has  less  to  lose,  and  less  to  feel,  each  day. 

Seek  not  thy  joys  when  on  the  desolate  shore 

The  raked  rocks  thunder,  and  the  caverns  roar, 

And  the  woods  moan,  while  shoots  the  setting  sun 

Discords  of  angry  lights  o'er  billows  dun. 

Make  white  thy  thoughts  as  is  a  Vestal's  sleep — 

Bloodless  :  prolong,  beside  the  murmuring  deep, 

Thy  matutinal  slumbers,  till  the  bird 

That  tuned,  not  broke  them,  is  no  longer  heard. 

The  flowers  the  children  of  the  Stranger  bring 

Indulgent  take  :  permit  thy  latest  Spring 

To  lure  from  thee  all  bitterness  and  wrath  : 

Into  Death's  bosom,  genial  as  a  bath, 

Sink  back  absolved.     Justice  to  God  belongs: 

Soul  latest-stricken,  leave  with  Him  thy  wrongs  ! 

Justice,  o'er  angels  and  o'er  men  supreme, 
Still  in  mid  heaven  sustains  her  balanced  beam, 


I5<        THE  IRISH  GAEL    TO  THE  IRISH  NORMAN. 

With  whose  vast  scales,  whether  they  sink  or  rise, 
The  poles  of  earth  are  forced  to  sympathize. 
Unseen  she  rules,  wrapped  round  in  cloud  and  awe ; 
Her  silence  is  the  seal  of  mortal  law  ; 
Her  voice  the  harmony  of  every  sphere  : 
Most  distant  is  she  ever,  yet  most  near  ; 
Most  strong  when  least  regarded.     From  her  eyes 
That  light  goes   forth   which   cheers   the   brave   and 

wise  ; 

And  in  the  arm  that  lifts  aloft  her  sword, 
Whatever  might  abides  on  earth  is  stored. 
Fret  not  thyself.     Watch  thou  (and  wait)  her  hand  ! 
The  thunder-drops  fall  fast.     In  every  land 
Humanity  breathes  quick,  and  coming  storm 
Looks    through    man's    soul   with   flashes    swift    and 

warm  : 

The  fiery  trial  and  the  shaken  sieve 
Shall  prove  the  nations.     What  can  live  shall  live. 
Falsehood  shall  die  ;  and  falsehoods  widest-based 
Shall  lie  the  lowest,  though  they  fall  the  last. 

Down  from  the  mountain  of  their  greatness  hurled, 
What  witness  bear  the  Nations  to  the  World  ? 
Down  rolled,  like  rocks  along  the  Alpine  stairs, 
What  warning  voice  is  .theirs,  and  ever  theirs  ? 
Their  ears  the  Nations  unsubverted  close, 
For  who   would    hear    the    voice   whose   words    are 

Woes  ? 

Woe  to  ancestral  greatness,  if  the  dower 
Of  knightly  worth  confirm  no  more  its  power. 
Woe  to  commercial  strength,  if  sensual  greed 
Heap  up  like  waves  its  insolent  gold,  nor  heed 


IRELAND.  1S9 

What  solid  good  rewards  the  poor  man's  toil. 
Woe  to  the  Monarch,  if  the  unholy  oil 
Of  smooth-tongued  flattery  be  his  balm  and  chrism. 
Woe  to  the  State  cleft  through  by  social  schism. 
Woe  to  Religion,  when  the  birds  obscene 
Of  Heresy  from  porch  to  altar-screen 
Range  free  ;  while  from  the  temple-eaves  look  down 
Doubt's  shadowy  brood,  ill-masked  in  cowl  or  gown. 
Woe  to  the  Rulers  by  the   People  ruled — 
A  People  drowned  in  sense,  and  pride-befooled, 
Trampling  where  sages  once,  and  martyrs,  trod. 
Ye  nations  meet  your  doom,  or  serve  at  last  your 
God! 


IRELAND.     1851. 

O  THOU  !   afflicted  and  beloved,   O   Thou  ! 
Who  on  thy  wasted  hands  and  bleeding  brow — 
Dread  miracle  of  Love — from  reign  to  reign, 
Freshenest  thy  stigmata  of  sacred  Pain  : 
Lamp  of  the  North  when  half  the  world  was  night ; 
Now  England's  darkness  'mid  her  noon  of  light  ; 
History's  sad  wonder,  whom  all  lands  save  one 
Gaze  on  through  tears,  and  name  with  gentler  tone  : 
O  Tree  of  God  !    that  burnest  unconsumed  ; 
O   Life  in  Death  !   for  centuries  entombed  ; 
That  art  uprisen,  and  higher  far  shalt  rise, 
Drawn  up  by  strong  attraction  to  the  skies  : 
Thyself  most  weak,  yet  strengthened  from  above  : 
Smitten  of  God,  yet  not  in  hate,  but  love  : — 


l6o  THE   SISTERS. 

Thy  love  make  perfect,  and  from  love's  pure  hate 

The  earthlier  scum  and  airier  froth  rebate  ! 

Be  strong  ;   be  true  !     Thy  palms  not  yet  are  won  : 

Thine  ampler  mission  is  but  now  begun. 

Hope  not  for  any  crown  save  that  thou  wearest — 

The  crown  of  thorns.      Preach  thou  that  Cross  thou 

bearest  ! 

Go  forth  !  each  coast  shall  glow  beneath  thy  tread  ! 
What  radiance  bursts  from  heaven  upon  thy  head  ? 
What  fiery  pillar  is  before  thee  borne  ? 
Thy  loved  and  lost  !     They  lead  thee  to  thy  morn  ! 
They  pave  thy  paths  with  light  !      Beheld  by  man, 
Thou  walkest  a  shade,  not  shape,  beneath  a  ban. 
Walk  on — work  on— love  on  ;    and,   suffering,   cry, 
"  Give  me  more  suffering,   Lord,  or  else  I   die." 


THE  SISTERS j    OR,   WEAL  IN   WOE. 

AN   IRISH    TALE. 
.DEDICATED  TO   STEPHEN   SPRING   RICE. 

FROM  nine  to  twelve  my  guest  was  eloquent 
In  anger,  mixed  with  sorrow,  at  the  things 
He  saw  around  us — lands  half  marsh,  half  weeds, 
Gates  from  the  gate-posts  miserably  divorced, 
Hovels  ill-thatch'd,  wild  fences,  fissured  roads — 
"  Your  people  never  for  the  future  plan  ; 
They  live  but  for  the  moment."     Thus  he  spake, 
A  youth  just  entering  on  his  broad  domains, 


THE   SISTERS.  l6l 

A  senator  in  prorogation  time 

Travelling  for  knowledge,  Oxford's   accurate  scholar, 

A  perfect  rider,  clean  in  all  his  ways, 

But  by  traditions  narrow'd.     As  the  moon 

Turns  but  one  side  to  earth,  so  show'd  that  world 

Whereon  he  gazed,  for  stubborn  was  his  will, 

And  Ireland  he  had  never  loved.     "You  err," 

I  answer'd,  taking  in  good  part  his  wrath, 

"  Our  peasant  too  has  prescience  ;  far  he  sees  ; 

Earth  is  his  foreground  only,  rough  or  smooth ; 

In  him  from  seriousness  the  lightness  comes  : 

Too  serious  is  he  to  make  sacrifice 

For  fleeting  good ;  the  battles  of  this  world 

He  with  the  left  hand  fights,  and  half  in  sport ; 

He  has  his  moment — and  eternity." 

"Ay,   ay,"  exclaim'd  my  guest,    "your   Church,    she 

does  it ! 

Your  feasts  and  fasts  and  wakes  and  social  rites, 
With  '  Sir,'  and  '  Ma'am,'  and  usages  of  Court : — 
I've  seen  a  hundred  men  leave  plough  and  spade 
To  take  a  three  weeks'  infant  to  its  grave, 
A  cripple  pay  two  shillings  for  a  cart 
To  bear  him  to  the   Holy  Well— Sick  Land! 
Look  up  !  the  proof  is  round  you  written  large  ! 
Your  Faith  is  in  the  balance  wanting  found  : 
Your  shipless  seas  confess  it ;  bridgeless  streams  ; 
Your  wasted  wealth  of  ore,  and  moor,  and  bay ! 
Beneath  the  Upas  shade  of  Faith  depraved 
All    things     lie     dead  —  wealth,     comfort,     freedom, 

power — 

All  that  great  Nations  boast !"     "  Such  things,"  I  an 
swer'd, 


1 62  THE   SISTERS. 

The  Gentiles  seek ;  and  you  new  texts  have  found  : 

'  Ecclesiag  stands  vel  cadentis,'  friend  ; — 

*  Blessed  the  rich  :  blessed  whom  all  men  praise  :' 

New  Scriptures,  these  ;  the  Irish  keep  the  old  ! 

Say,  are  there  not  diversities  of  gifts  ? 

Are  there  not  virtues — Industry  is  one — 

Which  reap  on  earth,  whilst  others  sow  for  heaven  ? 

Faith,  hope,  and  love,  and  purity,  and  patience, 

Humility,  and  self-forgetfulness, 

These  too  are  virtues  ;  yet  they  rear  not  States. 

What  then  ?     Of  many  Nations  earth  is  made  : 

Each  hath  its  function  ;  each  its  part  for  others  : 

If  all  were  hand,  where  then  were  ear  or  eye  ? 

If  all  were  foot,  where  head  ?     You  rail,  my  friend, 

Not  at  my  country  only  but  your  own. 

The  land  that  gave  us  birth  our  service  claims, 

The  suffering  land  our  love.     Yet  England,  too, 

They  love,  and  they  the  most,  who  flatter  not. 

A  thousand  years  of  nobleness  she  lived 

Whereof  you  rob  her  !      In  this  isle  are  men 

By  ancient  lineage  hers.     Such  men  might  say, 

'  My  England  was  entomb'd  ere  yours  had  birth' — 

Dates  she  from  Arkwright  only  ?    Rose  the  Nation 

With  Alfred,  or  those  Tudor  Kings  who  built 

The  Golden  Gate  of  England's  modern  time, 

But  built  it  upon  liberties  annull'd, 

Old  glories  quench'd,  the  old  nobles  dead  or  quell'd — 

Aye,  wrecks  more  sad  ?"     His  host,  I  could  not  use 

Words  rough  as  his  albeit  to  shield  a  land 

For  every  shaft  a  targe  ;  so  changed  the  theme 

To  her  he  knew — thence  loved. 

He  loved  his  country  ; 


THE   SISTERS.  163 

An  older  man  than  he  for  things  less  great 

Had  loved  her  less.     Yet  who  could  gaze,  unmoved, 

From   Windsor's    terraced   heights  o'er  those  broad 

meads 

Lit  by  the  pomp  of  silver-winding  Thames 
Dropping  past  templed  grove,  and  hall,  and  farm, 
Toward  the  great  City  ?  Who,  unthrill'd,  could  mark 
Her  Minsters,  towering  far  away,  with  heads 
That  stay  the  sunset  of  old  times  ;  or  them, 
Oxford  and  Cambridge,  England's  anchors  twain, 
That  to  her  moorings  hold  her  ?     Fresh  from  these 
Who,  who  could  tread,  O  Wye,  thy  watery  vale 
Where  Tintern  reigns  in  ruin  ;  who  could  rest 
Where  Bolton  finds  in  Wharf  a  warbling  choir, 
Or  where  the  sea-wind  fans  thy  brow  discrown'd, 
Furness,  nor  love  and  wonder  ?     Who,  untouch'd, 
When    evening  creeps   from    Scawfell   toward   Black 

•  Combe, 

Could  wander  by  thy  darkly  gleaming  lakes 
Embay'd  mid  sylvan  garniture  and  isles 
From  saint  or  anchoret  named,  within  the  embrace 
Of  rural  mountains  green,  or  sound,  scent,  touch, 
Of  kine-besprinkled,   soft,  partition'd  vales, 
Almost  domestic  ?    Shadow-haunted  land  ! 
By  Southey's  lake  Saint  Herbert  holds  his  own  ! 
The  knightly  armor  now  by  Ye\v-dale's  crag 
Rings  loud  no  longer  :    Grasmere's  reddening  glass 
Reflects  no  more  the  on-rushing  clan  ;  yet  still 
Thy  Saxon  kings,  and  ever-virgin  Queens 
Possess  thee  with  a  quiet  pathos  ;  still, 
Like  tarnish'd  path  forlorn  of  moon  that  sets 
Over  wide-water'd  moor  and  marsh,  thy  Past 


164  THE   SISTERS. 

A  spiritual  sceptre,  though  deposed,  extends 
From  sea  to  sea — from  century-worn  St.  Bees 
To  Cuthbert's  tomb  under  those  eastern  towers 
On  Durham's  bowery  steep  ! 

He  loved  his  country  : 

That  love  I  honor'd.    Great  and  strong  he  call'd  her  ; 
But  well  I  knew  that  had  her  greatness  waned, 
His  love  had  wax'd. 

As  thus  we  talk'd  the  sun 

Launch'd  through  the  hurrying  clouds  a  rainy  beam 
That  smote  the  hills.     My  guest  exclaim'd,   "  Come 

forth — 

We  waste  the  day  !     Yon  ridge  my  fancy  takes  ; 
Climb  we  its  crest  !"     The  wolf-hound  at  our  feet, 
Our  drift  divining,  bounded  sudden  on  us 
In  rapture  of  prospective  gratitude. 

We  pass'd  the  offending  gate  ;  a  plank  for  bridge, 
We    pass'd    the    offending    stream  which   dash'd   its 

spray 

Contemptuous  on  us,  proud  of  liberty. 
I  laugh'd. — "  Our  passionate  Ireland  is  the  stream  ; 
Seven  hundred  years  at  will  it  mocks  or  chicles  ; 
You  have  not  made  it  turn  your  English  mill  !" 
We  scaled  the  hills  ;  we  push'd  through  miles  of  trees, 
Which,  sire  and  son,  had  held  their  own  since  first 
The  tall  elk  trod  their  ways.     Lightning  and  storm 
Had  left  large  wrecks  : — election  wars,  not  less, 
Or  hospitalities  as  fierce,  when  home 
A  thousand  chiefless  clansmen  dragg'd  the  bride, 
Or  danced  around  a  cradle, — ah,  brave  hearts ! 
Loyal  where  cause  for  loyalty  was  scant ! 


THE   SISTERS.  165 

Vast  were  those  woods  and  fair ;  rock,  oak,  and  yew, 

Grey,  green,  and  black,  in  varying  measures  striking 

That  three-string'd  lyre  which  charms  not  ear  but  eye. 

Long  climbing,  from  the  woodland  we  emerged 

And  paced  a  rocky  neck  of  pale  green  pasture, 

The  limit  of  two  counties.     Full  in  face 

Rush'd,  ocean-scented,  the  harmonic  wind  : 

Round  us  the  sheep-bells  chimed  ;  a  shower  late  past 

With  jewelry  had  hung  the  blackberry  bush, 

And  gorse-brake  half  in  gold.     On  either  side 

Thin-skinn'd,  ascetic,  slippery,  the  descent 

Down  slanted  toward  the  creeping  mists.     Our  goal 

We  reach'd  at  last — a  broad  and  rocky  mass 

Forth  leaning,  lordly,  unto  lands  remote, 

The  lion's  head  of  all  those  feebler  hills 

That  cowering  slunk  behind  it.     Far  around 

Low  down,  subjected,  stretch'd  the  sea-like  waste 

Shade-swept,  unbounded,  like  infinity. 

An  hour  before  his  time  the  sun  had  dropp'd 

Behind  a  mountain-wall  of  barrier  cloud 

Wide  as  the  world :  but  five  great  beams  converged 

Toward  the  invisible  seat  of  his  eclipse ; 

And  over  many  a  river,  bay,  and  mere 

Lay  the  dull  red  of  ante-dated  eve. 

That  summit  was  a  churchyard.     Cross-engraven 
Throng'd  the  close  tomb-stones.       Each  one   prayed 

for  peace  ; 
And  some   were   raised  by  men   whose   heads   were 

white 

Ere  selfless  toil  had  won  the  hoarded  coins 
That  honor'd  thus  a  parent.     In  the  midst 


l66  THE  SISTERS, 

A  tomb-like  chapel,  thirty  feet  by  ten, 
Stood  monumental,  with  stone  roof  and  walls 
The  wrestling  centuries  slid  from.     Nigh  we  sat, 
While,  by  the  polish'd  angle  split,  the  wind 
Hiss'd  like  a  forked  serpent.     Silent  long 
My  friend  remain'd ;  his  sallies  all  had  ceased, 
A  man  of  tender  nerve  though  stubborn  thought. 
The  scene  weigh'd  on  him  like  a  Prophet's  scroll 
Troubling  some  unjust  City.     Round  and  round 
He  scann'd  the  desolate  region,  and  at  last 
Pray'd  me  the  hieroglyphic  to  expound. 
"  Yon  tower  which  blurs  the  lonely  lake  far  off, 
What  is  it  ?"      And  I  answer'd,  "  Know  you  not  ? 
He  built  it,  he  that  Norman  horsed  and  mail'd, 
Who,  strong  in  Henry's  might  and  Adrian's  bull, 
Rent  from  the  Gaelic  monarch  half  his  realm  ; — 
The  rest  came  later,  dowry  of  the  bride." 

Once    more    he   mused;    then,  westward   pointing, 

spake  : — 

"Yon  lovely  hills,  yet  low,  with  Phidian  line, 
That  melt  into  the  horizon : — on  their  curve 
A  ruined  castle  stands  ;    the  sky  glares  through  it, 
Red,  like  a  conflagration  ?"     I  replied  : 
"  Four  hundred  years  the  Norman  held  his  own  : 
He  spake  the  People's  language  ;  they  in  turn 
His  war-cry  had  resounded  far  and  wide ; 
Their  history  he  had  grown,  impersonate. 
The  Land  rejoiced  in  him,  and  of  his  greatness 
Uplifted,  glorying,  on  a  neck  high  held 
The  beautiful  burden,  as  the  wild  stag  lifts 
O'er  rocky  Tore  his  antlers  !     Would  you  more  ? 


THE   SISTERS.  167 

The  Desmond  was  unloved  beside  the    Thames  ; 
The  right  of  the  great  Palatine  was  trampled  ; 
His  Faith  by  law  proscribed.     O'er  tombs  defaced, 
In  old  Askeaton's  Abbey,  of  his  sires 
He  vow'd  unwilling  war.     Long  years  the  realm 
Reel'd  like  a  drunken  man.     Behold  the  end  ! 
Yon  wreck  speaks  all !" 

Thus  question  after  question 
Dragg'd,    maim'd    and    mangled,    dragg'd    reluctant 

forth 

Time's  dread  confession  !     Crime  replied  to  crime  : 
Whom  Tudor  planted  Cromwell  rooted  out ; 
For  Charles  they  fought; — to  fight  for  Kings,  their 

spoilers, 

The  rebel  named  rebellion  !     William  next ! 
Once  more  the  Nobles  were  down  hurl'd ;    once  more 
Nobility  as  in  commission  placed 
By   God  among  the   lowly.     Loyalty 
To   native   Princes,   or  to   Norman   chiefs, 
Their  lawless  conquerors,  or  to  British  Kings, 
Or  her  the  Mother  Church  that  ne'er  betray'd, 
Had  met  the  same  reward.      The  legend  spake 
Words  few  but  plain,  grim  rubric  traced  in  blood ; 
While,  like  a  Fury  fleeting  through  the  air, 
History  from  all  the  octaves  of  her  lyre 
Struck  but  one  note  !     What  rifted  tower  and  keep 
Witness'd  of  tyrannous  and   relentless  wars, 
That  shipless  gulfs,  that  bridgeless  streams  and  moors, 
Black  as  if  lightning-scarr'd,  or  curst  of  God, 
Proclaim'd  of  laws  blacker  than  brand  or  blight — 
Those  Penal  Laws.     The  tale  was  none   of  mine ; 


1 68  THE   SISTERS. 

Stone  rail'd  at  stone ;   grey  ruins   dumbly  frown'd 
Defiance,  and  the  ruin-handled  blast 
Scatter'd  the  fragments  of  Cassandra's  curse 
From  the  far  mountains  to  the  tombs  close  by, 
Which  mutter'd  treason. 

That  sad  scene  to  me 
Had  lost  by  use  its  pathos  as  the  scent 
Which  thrills  us,  while  we  pass  the  garden,  palls 
On  one  within  it  tarrying.     To  my  friend 
It  spake  its  natural  language  :   and  as  he 
Who,  hard  through  habit,  reads  with  voice  unmoved 
A  ballad  that  once  touch'd  him,  if  perchance 
Some  listener  weeps,  partakes  that  listener's  trouble, 
Even  so  the  stranger's  sorrow  struck  on  mine, 
And  I  believed  the  things  which  I  beheld, 
There  sitting  silent.     When  at  last  he  spake, 
The  spirit  of  the  man  in  part  was  changed  ; 
The  things  but  heard  of  he  had  seen  :   the  truths 
Coldly  conceded  now  he  realized  : 
Justice  at  last,  with  terrible  recoil, 
Leap'd  up  full-arm'd,  a  strong  man  after  sleep, 
And  dash'd  itself  against  the  wrong  !     I  answer'd : 
"  Once  more  you  speak  the  words  you  spake  this 

morn, — 

*  Look  up,  the  proof  is  round  you,  written  large  : ' 
But  in  an  alter'd  sense." 


I  spake,  and  left  him : 

Left  him  to  seek  a  tomb  which  three  long  years 
Holds  one  I  honor'd.     Half-an-hour  went  by ; 


THE   SISTERS. 


I69 


Then  he  rejoin'd  me.     With  a  knitted  brow, 
And  clear  vindictiveness  of  speech,  like  him 
Who,  loving,  hates  the  sin  of  whom  he  loves, 
He  spake  against  the  men  who,  having  won 
By  right  or  wrong  the  mastery  of  this  isle 
(For  in  our  annals  he  was  versed,  nor  ran 
In  custom's  blinkers,  save  on  modern  roads), 
Could  make  of  it,  seven  hundred  years  gone  by, 
No  more  than  this  ! — Then   I  : — "  No  country  loved 

they  : 

Her  least,  the  imperial  realm  ! — 'Tis  late  to  mourn  ; 
Let  past  be  past."     "  The  Past,"  he  said,  "  is  pre 
sent  ; 

And  o'er  the  Future  stretches  far  a  hand 
Shadowy  and  minatory."     "  Come  what  may," 
I  said,  "no  suffering  can  to  us  be  new  ; 
No  shadow  fail  to  dew  some  soul  with  grace. 
The  history  of  a  Soul  holds  in  it  more 
Than  doth  a  Nation's  !     In  its  every  chance 
Eternity  lies  hid  ;   from  every  step 
Branch  forth  two  paths  piercing  infinity. 
These  things  look  noblest  from  their  spiritual  side : 
A  statesman,  on  the  secular  side  you  see  them, 
And  doubt  a  future  based  on  such  a  past. 
'Tis  true,  with  wrong  dies  not  the  effect  of  wrong, 
Or  sense  thereof: — 'tis  true  stern  Power  with  time 
Changes  its  modes,  not  instinct  :   true  it  is 
That  hollow  peace  is  war  that  wears  a  mask  : 
Yet  let  us  quell  to-day  unquiet  thoughts  : 
She  rests  who  lies  in  yonder  tomb  :   sore  pains 
She  suffer'd  :   yet  within  her  there  \vas  peace  : 
In  God's  high  Will  she  rests,  and  why  not  we  ?" 


17°  THE   SISTERS. 

Thus  we  conversed  till  twilight,  thickening,  crept, 

Compassionate,  o'er  a  scene  to  which  we  said 

Twilight  seem'd  native,  day  a  garish  vest 

Worn  by  a  slave.     Returning,  oft  my  friend 

Cast   loose,  in   wrath,  the    arch-rebel    Truth  ;    I    an- 

swer'd  : 

"  She  rests,  and  why  not  we  ?     O  suffering  land  ! 
Thee,  too,  God  shields  ;  and  only  for  this  cause 
Can  they  that  love  thee  sleep."     Her  tale  at  last 
He  sought  with  instance.     'Twas  not  marvellous, 
I  told  him  :   yet  to  calm  his  thoughts  perturb'd, 
Thus,  while  the  broad  moon  o'er  the  lonely  moor 
Rose,  blanching  as  she  soar'd,  till  pools,  at  first 
With  trembling  light  o'erlaid,  gave  back  her  face, 
And  all  the  woodland  waves  as  eve  advanced 
Shone  bright  o'er  sombre  hollows,  I  recounted 
The  fragments  of  a  noteless  Irish  life, 
Not  strange  esteem'd  among  us.     Such  a  theme 
I  sought  not.     Ill  it  were  to  forge  for  friend 
A  providence,  or  snare  him  though  to  Truth. 
Yet  I  was  pleased  he  sought  that  tale.     'Twas  sad 
But  in  its  dusky  glass  (and  this  I  hid  not) 
Shadow'd  a  phantom  image  of  my  country, 
Vanquish'd  yet  victor,  in  her  weal  and  woe. 


The  Father  in  the  prime  of  manhood  died  ; 
The  mother  followed  soon  ;  their  children  twain, 
Margaret  Mac  Carthy,  and  her  sister  Mary, 
The  eldest  scarcely  ten  years  old,  survived 
To  spread  cold  hands  upon  a  close-seal'd  grave, 
And  cry  to  those  who  answer'd  not.     The  man 


THE   SISTERS.  I/r 

Who,  in  that  narrow  spot  to  them  the  world, 
Stood  up  and  seenrd  as  God  ; — that  gentler  one 
Who  overhung  like  Heaven  their  earliest  thought, 
And  in  the  bosom  of  whose  sleepless  love 
Reborn  they  seem'd  each  morning — both  were  dead. 
In  grief's  bewilderment  the  orphans  stood 
Like  one  by  fraud  betray'd  :   nor  moon,  nor  sun, 
Nor  trees,  nor  grass,  nor  herds,  nor  hills  appear'd 
To  them  what  they  had  been.     In  sadden'd  eyes, 
Frighten'd  yet  dull,  in  voice  subdued,  and  feet 
That  moved  as  though  they  fear'd  to  wake  the  dead, 
Men  saw  that  nowhere  loneliness  more  lives 
Than  in  the  breasts  of  children.     Time  went  by; 
The  farm  was  lost  ;   and  to  her  own  small  home 
Their  father's  mother  led  them.     'Twas  not  far  ; 
They  could  behold  the  orchard  they  had  loved  ; 
Behind  the  hedge  could  hear  the  robin  sing, 
And  the  bees  murmur.     Slowly,  as  the  trance 
Of  grief  dissolved,  the  present  lived  once  more  ; 
The  past  became  a  dream  ! 

I  see  them  still ! 

Softly  the  beauty-making  years  on  went, 
And  each  one  as  he  pass'd  our  planet's  verge 
Look'd  back,  and  left  a  gift.     A  darker  shade 
Dropp'd  on  the  deepening  hair  ;  a  brighter  gleam 
Forth  flash'd  from  sea-blue  eyes  with  darkness  fringed. 
Like,  each  to  each,  their  stature  growing  kept 
Unchanged  gradation.     To  her  grandmother 
A  quick  eye,  and  a  serviceable  hand 
Endear'd  the  elder  most  ;  she  kept  the  house  ; 
Hers  was  the  rosier  cheek,  the  livelier  mind, 


I?2  THE   SISTERS. 

The  smile  of  readier  cheer.     In  Mary  lived 

A  visionary  and  pathetic  grace 

Through  all  her  form  diffused,  from  those  small  feet 

Up  to  that  beauteous-shaped  and  netted  head, 

Which  from  the  slender  shoulders  and  slight  bust 

Rose  like  a  queen's.     Alone,  not  solitary, 

Full  often  half  an  autumn  day  she  sat 

On  the  high  grass-banks,  foot  with  foot  enclasped, 

Now  twisting  osiers,  watching  cloud-shades  now, 

Or  rushing  vapors,  through  whose  chasms  there  shone 

Far  off  an  alien  race  of  clouds  like  Alps 

O'er  Courmayeur  white-gleaming,  and  like  them 

To  stillness  frozen.     Well  that  orphan  knew  them, 

Those  marvellous  clouds  that  roof  our  Irish  wastes  ; 

Spring's  lightsome  veil  outblown,  sad  Autumn's  bier, 

And  Winter's  pillar  of  electric  light 

Slanted  from  heaven.     A  spirit-world,  so  seem'cl  it, 

In  them  was  imaged  forth  to  her. 

With  us 

The  childish  heart  betroths  itself  full  oft 
In  vehement  friendship.     Mary's  was  of  these  ; 
And  thus  her  fancy  found  that  counterweight 
Which  kept  her  feet  on  earth.     With  her  there  walk'd 
Two  years  a  little  maiden  of  the  place, 
Her  comrade,  as  men  call'd  her.     Eve  by  eve 
Homeward  from  school  we  saw  them  as  they  pass'd, 
One  arm  of  each  about  the  other's  neck, 
Above  both  heads  a  single  cloak.     She  died, 
To  Mary  leaving  what  she  valued  most, 
A  rosary  strung  with  beads  from  Olivet. 
Daily  did  Mary  count  those  beads  : — from  each 
The  picture  of  some  Christian  Truth  ascending, 


THE   SISTERS.  173 

Till  all  the  radiant  Mysteries  shone  on  high 
Like  constellations,  and  man's  gloomy  life 
For  her  to  music  roll'd  on  poles  of  love 
Through   realms   of  glory.      Hope   makes    Love   im 
mortal  ! 

That  friend  she  ne'er  forgot.     In  later  years 
Working  with  other  maidens  equal-aged, 
(A  lady  of  the  land  instructed  them,) 
In  circle  on  the  grass,  not  them  she  saw, 
Heard  not  the  song  they  sang  :    alone  she  sat, 
And  heard  'mid  sighing  pines  and  murmuring  streams 
The  voice  of  the  departed. 

Smoothly  flow'd 

Till  Margaret  had  attain'd  her  eighteenth  year 
The  tenor  of  their  lives  ;   and  they  became, 
Those  sisters  twain,  a  name  in  all   the  vale 
For  beauty,  kindness,  truth,  for  modest  grace, 
And  all  that  makes  that  fairest  flower  of  all 
Earth  bears,  heaven  fosters — peasant  nobleness  : — 
For  industry  the  elder.     Mary  fail'd 
In  this,  a  dreamer;   indolence  her  fault, 
And  self-indulgence,  not  that  coarser  sort 
Which  seeks  delight,  but  that  which  shuns  annoy. 
And  yet  she  did  her  best.     The  dull  red  morn 
Shone,  beamless,  through  the  wintry  hedge  while  pass'd 
That  pair  with  panniers,  or,  on  whitest  brows, 
The  balanced  milk-pails.     Margaret  ruled  serene, 
A  wire-fenced  empire  smiling  through  soft  glooms, 
The  pure,  health-breathing  dairy.     Softer  hand 
Than  Mary's  ne'er  let  loose  the  wool ;   no  eye 
Finer  pursued  the  on-flowing  line  :    her  wheel 


174  THE   SISTERS. 

Murmur'd  complacent  joy  like  kitten  pleased. 
With  us  such  days  abide  not. 

Sudden  fell 

Famine,  the  Terror  never  absent  long, 
Upon  our  land.     It  shrank — the  daily  dole  ; 
The  oatmeal  trickled  from  a  tighter  grasp  ; 
Hunger  grew  wild  through  panic  ;  infant  cries 
Madden'd  at  times  the  gentle  into  wrong  : 
Death's  gentleness  more  oft  for  death  made  way ; 
And  like  a  lamb  that  openeth  not  its  mouth 
The  sacrificial  People,  fillet-bound, 
Stood  up  to  die.     Amid  inviolate  herds 
Thousands  the  sacraments  of  death  received, 
Then  waited  God's  decree.     These  things  are  known 
Strangers  have  witness'd  to  them  ;  strangers  writ 
The  epitaph  again  and  yet  again. 
The  nettles  and  the  weeds  by  the  way-side 
Men  ate  :  from  sharpening  features  and  sunk  eyes 
Hunger  glared  forth,  a  wolf  more  lean  each  hour  ; 
Children  seem'd  pigmies  shrivell'd  to  sudden  age  ; 
And  the  deserted  babe  too  weak  to  wail 
But  shook  if  hands,  pitying  or  curious,  raised 
The  rag  across  him  thrown.     In  England  alms 
From  many  a  private  hearth  were  largely  sent, 
As  ofttimes  they  have  been.     'Twas  vain.     The  land 
Wept  while  her  sons  sank  back  into  her  graves 
Like  drowners  'mid  still  seas.     Who  could  escaped  : 
And  on  a  ghost-throng'd  deck,  amid  such  cries 
As  from  the  battle-field  ascend  at  night 
When  stumbling  widows  grope  o'er  heaps  of  slain, 
Amid  such  cries  stood  Mary,  when  the  ship 
Its  cable  slipp'd  and,  on  the  populous  quays 


THE   SISTERS.  175 

Grating,  without  a  wind,  on  the  slow  tide, 
Dropp'd  downward  to  the  main. 

For  western  shores 

Those  emigrants  were  bound.     At  Liverpool, 
Fann'd  by  the  ocean  breeze,  the  smouldering  fire 
Of  fever  burst  into  a  sudden  flame  ; 
The  stricken  there  were  left ; — among  them  Mary. 
How  long  she  knew  not  in  an  hospital 
She  lay,  a  Babel  of  confused  distress 
Dinn'd  with  delirious  strife.     But  o'er  her  brow 
God  shook  the  dew  of  dreams  wherein  she  trod 
The  shadow'd  wood-walks  of  old  days  once  more, 
And  dabbled  in  old  streams.     Ere  long,  still  weak, 
Abroad  she  roam'd,  a  basket  on  her  arm, 
With  violets  heap'd.     The  watchman  of  the  city 
Laid  his  strong  hand  upon  her  drooping  head 
Banning  the  impostor.     'Twas  her  rags,  she  thought, 
Incensed  him,  and  in  meekness  moved  she  on. 
When  one  with  lubrique  smile  toy'd  with  her  flowers, 
And  spake  of  violet  eyes  and  easier  life, 
She  understood  not,  but  misliked,  and  pass'd. 
In  Liverpool  an  aged  priest  she  found, 
A  kinsman  of  her  mother's.     Much  to  her 
Of  emigrants  he  spake,  and  of  their  trials, 
Old  ties  annull'd,  and  'mid  temptations  strange 
Lacking  full  oft  the  Bread  of  Life.     She  wept ; 
Before  the  tabernacle's  lamp  she  pray'd 
Freshly-absolved  and  heavenliest,  with  a  prayer 
That  shower'd  God's  blessing  o'er  the  wanderers  down  ; 
But  dead  was  her  desire  to  cross  the  main. 
Her  strength  restored,  beyond  the  city-bound 
With  others  of  her  nation  she  abode, 


I?  THE    SISTERS. 

Amid  the  gardens  laboring.     A  rough  clan 

Those  outcasts  seem'd  ;  not  like  their  race  at  home  : 

Nor  chapel  theirs,  nor  school.       Their  strength  was 

prized  ; 

Themselves  were  so  esteem'd  as  that  sad  tribe 
Beside  the  Babylonian  streams  that  wept, 
By  those  that  loved  not  Sion. 

Weeks  grew  months  ; 

And,  with  the  strength  to  suffer,  sorrow  came. 
Hard  by  their  nomad  camp  a  youth  there  lived 
Of  wealthier  sort,  who  look'd  upon  this  maid  : 
Her  country  was  his  own  :  he  loved  it  not ; 
Had  rooted  quickly  in  the  stranger's  land  ; 
And  versatile,  cordial,  specious,  seeming-frank, 
Contracting  for  himself  a  separate  peace, 
Had  prosper' d,  but  had  prosper'd  in  such  sort 
As  they  that  starve  within.     Her  confidence 
He  gain'd.     To  love  unworthy,  still  he  loved  her  : 
Loved  with  the  love  of  an  unloving  heart — 
That  love  which  either  is  in  shallows  lost, 
Or  in  its  black  depth  breeds  the  poison  weed. 
She  knew  him  not ;  how  could  she  ?     He  himself 
Knew  scantly.     Near  her  what  was  best  within  him 
Her  golden  smile  sunn'd  forth  ;  but,  dark  and  cold, 
Like  a  benighted  hemisphere  abode 
A  moiety  of  his  being  which  she  saw  not. 
His  was  a  superficial  nature,  vain, 
And  hard,  to  good  impressions  sensitive, 
And  most  admiring  virtues  least  his  own  ; 
A  mirror  that  took  in  a  seeming  world, 
And  yet  remain'd  blank  surface.     He  was  crafty, 
Follow'd  the  plough  with  diplomatic  heart ; 


THE    SISTERS.  I  77 

His  acts  were  still  like  the  knight's  move  at  chess, 
Each  a  surprise  ;  not  less,  to  nature's  self 
Who  heard  him  still  referr'd  them.    "  What !"  men  said, 
"  Marry  the  portionless  !"   Strange  are  fortune's  freaks  ! 
The  wedding-day  was  fix'd,  the  ring  brought  home, 
When  from  a  distant  uncle  tidings  came  : 
His  latest  son  was  dead.     "  Take  thou  my  farm, 
And  share  my  house  " — So  spake  the  stern  old  man — 
"  And  wed  the  wife  whom  I  for  thee  have  found." 
He  show'd  the  maid  that  letter.     Slowly  the  weeds 
Made  way  adown  the  thick  and  stifled  stream, 
And  others  follow'd  ;   slowly  sailed  the  cloud 
Through  the  dull  sky,  and  others  followed  slowly : 
At  last  he  spake.     Low  were  his  words  and  thin, 
Many,  but  scarcely  heard.     He  asked — her  counsel  ! 
Her  cheek  one  moment  burn'd.     Death-cold,  once  more 
A  little  while  she  sat ;  then  rose  and  said  : — 
"  You  would  be  free  ;  I  free  you  ;  go  in  peace." 
'Twas  the  good  angel  in  his  heart  that  loved  her  ; 
'Twas  not  the  man  himself!     He  wept,  but  went. 
The  woman  of  the  house  that  night  was  sure 
The  girl  had  loved  him  not.     She  thought  not  so 
When,  four  months  past,  she  mark'd  her  mouth,  aside, 
Tremble,  his  name  but  utter'd. 

Sharp  the  wrong  ! 

Yet  they  on  Life's  bewildered  book  would  force 
A  partial  gloss  it  bears  not  who  assume 
The  injured  wholly  free  from  blame.     The  world 
Is  not  a  board  in  squares  of  black  and  white, 
Or  else  the  judgment-executing  tongue 
Would  lack  probation.     Wrong' d  men  are  not  angels  ; 
Wrong's  chiefest  sin  is  this — it  genders  wrong; 


I?  THE   SISTERS. 

So  stands  the  offender  in  his  own  esteem 
Exculpate  ;  while  the  feebly-judging  starve 
The  just  cause,  babbling  "  mutual  was  the  offence  !" 
—The  man  was  weak  ;  not  wholly  vile.     'Twas  well, 
Doubtless,  to  free  him  ;  yet  in  after  years, 
When  early  blight  had  struck  his  radiant  head, 
The  girl  bewail'd  the  pride  that  left  thus  tempted 
The  man  she  loved ;  arraign'd  the  wrath  that  left  him 
Almost  without  farewell.     His  letter  too, 
Unopen'd  she  return'd.     'Twas  strange  !  so  sweet — 
Not  less  there  lived  within  her,  down,  far  down, 
A  fire-spring  seldom  waken'd  !     When  a  child 
At  times,  by  some  strange  jealousy  disturbed 
From  her  still  dream  she  flash'd  in  passion  quell'd 
Ere  from  her  staider  sister's  large  blue  eyes 
The  astonishment  had  pass'd.     Such  moods  remain'd 
Though  rare — that  wrath  of  tender  hearts,  which  scorns 
Revenge,  which  scarcely  utters  its  complaint, 
And  yet  forgives  but  slowly. 

In  those  days 

Within  the  maiden's  bosom  there  arose 
Sea-longings,  and  desire  to  sail  away 
She  knew  not  whither  ;    and  her  arms  she  spread, 
Weeping,  to  winds  and  waves,  and  shores  unknown, 
Lighted  by  other  skies  ;  and  inly  thus 
She  reason'd,  self-deceived.     "  What  keeps  thee  here  ? 
"  'Twas  for  a  farther  bourne  thou  bad'st  farewell 
"  To  those  at  home,  and  here  thou  art  as  one 
"  That  hangs  between  two  callings."     In  her  heart 
Tempests  low-toned  to  ocean-tempests  yearn'd, 
And  ever  when  she  mark'd  the  shipmast  forest 
That  on  the  smoky  river  swayed  far  off, 


THE   SISTERS.  1/9 

Her  wish  became  a  craving.     Soon  once  more 
Alone  'mid  hundreds  on  a  rain-wash'd  deck 
She  stood,  and  saw  the  billows  heave  around, 
And  all  the  passions  of  that  headlong  world. 
Dark-visaged  ocean  frown'd  with  hoary  brows 
Against  dark  skies  ;    huge,  lumbering  water-weights 
Went   shouldering    through    the   abysses  :    streaming 

clouds 

Ran  on  the  lower  levels  of  the  wind ; 
And  in  the  universe  of  things  she  seem'd 
An  atom  random  blown.     Full  many  a  morn 
Rose  red  through  mists,  like  babe  that  weeps  to  rise  ; 
Full  many  an  evening  died  from  wave  to  wave  ; — 
Then  gradual  peace  possess'd  her.     Love  may  wound, 
But  'tis  self-love  that  wound  exasperates  ; 
A  noble  nature  casts  out  bitterness, 
And  o'er  the  scar,  like  pine-tree  incorrupt, 
Weeps  healing  gums.     Heart-whole  she  gazed  at  last, 
On  the  great  city  chiefest  of  that  realm 
Which  wears  the  Future's  glory.     Landed,  soon 
Back  to  old  duties  with  a  mightier  zest 
Her  heart,  its  weakening  sadness  pass'd,  return'd  ; 
Kindness  made  service  easier;    and  the  tasks 
At  first  distasteful,  smiled  on  her  ere  long. 
There  she  was  loved  once  more  ;  there  all  went  well ; 
And  there  in  peace  she  might  have  lived  and    died  ; 
Yet  in  that  region  she  abode  not  long. 
In  part  a  wayward  instinct  drave  her  forth  ; 
In  part  a  will  that  from  the  accomplished  end 
Unstable  swerved ;  in  part  a  hope  forlorn. 
A  site  she  sought,  their  sojourn  who  had  left 
Long  since  her  village.     There  old  names,  old  voices, 


i8o 


THE   SISTERS. 


Faces  unknown,  yet  recognized,  throng'd    round    her 

In  unconsummate  union,  (hearts   still  like, 

Yet  all  beside   so  different,)  not  like   Souls 

Re-met  in   heaven — more   like    those    Shades  antique 

That,   'mid  the  empurpled  fields,  of  other  airs 

Mindful,   in  silence  trod   the  lordly  land, 

Or   flock'd  around  the  latest  guest  of  Death 

With  question  sad  of  home.     Imperfect  ties 

Rub  severance  into  soreness.     Mary  pass'd, 

Thus  urged,  ere  long  to  lonelier  climes.     She  track'd 

Companion'd  sometimes,   sometimes  without  friend, 

The  boundless  prairie,  sail'd  the  sea-like  lake, 

Descended  the  broad  river  as  it  rush'd 

Through  immemorial  forests  :    lastly  stood 

Sole,  'mid  that  city  by  the  southern    sea. 

There  sickness  fell  upon  her :    there  her  hand 
Dropt,  heavier  daily,   on  her  task  half  done  ; 
Her  feet  wore  chains  unseen.     The  end,  she  thought, 
Was  coming.     Ofttimes,  in  her  happier  days, 
She  wish'd  to  die  and  be  with  God :    yet  now, 
Wearied  by  many  griefs,  to  life  she  clung, 
Upbraiding  things  foregone  and  inly  sighing 
"  None  loves  to  die."     Sorrow,   earth-born,  in    some 
Breeds   first  the   Earth-infection ;   in  them  works, 
Like  those  pomegranate   seeds  that  barr'd  from  light 
For  aye  sad  Ceres'   child  !     Alas !    how   many, 
The  ill-honor'd  ecstacies  of  youth  surceased, 
Exchange  its  clear  spring  for  the  mire  !    Hope   sick, 
How  oft  Faith  dies  !     How  few  are  they  in   whom 
Virgin  but  yields  to  Vestal ;    casual  pureness 
Merged  in  essential ;    childhood's  matin  dew 
Fix'd,  ere  exhaled,  in  the  Soul's  adamant  ! 


THE   SISTERS.  l8l 

Mary  with  these  had  part;  to  her  help  came — 
That  help  the  proud  despise.     One  eve  it  chanced 
Upon  the  vast  and  dusking  quays  she  stood 
Alone  and  weeping.     She  that  morn  had  sent 
Her  latest  hoardings  to  her   grandmother, 
And  half  was   sorry  she  had  naught  retain'd : 
The  warm  rain  wet  her  hair  :    she  heard  within 
The  silver  ringing  of  its  drops  commingling 
With  that  still  mere  beside  her  childhood's  home, 
And  with  the  tawny  sedge  that  girt  it  round, 
And  with  its  winter  dogwood  far  away 
Reddening  the  faint,   still  gleam.     As  thus  she  stood 
Upon  her  shoulder  sank  a  hand.     She  turn'd : 
It  was  a  noble  lady,  clothed  in  black, 
And  veil'd.      That  veil  thrown  back,  she  recognized 
At  once  the  luminous  stillness  and  the  calm 
Ethereal  which  the  sacred  cloister  breeds. 
A  voice  as  pure  and  sweet  as  if  from  heaven 
Toned,    as    friend    speaks    to    friend,    address'd    her 

thus  : 
"  You  lack  a  home  :    our  convent  is  hard  by." 

The  lady,  Spanish  half,  and  Irish  half, 
No  answer  sought;    but  with  compulsion   soft 
Drew  her,  magnetic,  as  the  tree  hard  by 
Draws  the  poor  creeper  on  the  ground  diffused, 
And  lifts  it  into  light.     The  child's  cold  hand 
Lurk'd  soon  in  hers  :   and  in  that  home  which  seem'd 
An  isle  of  heaven  the  meek  lay-sister  lived 
(Ere  long  by  healthier  airs  to  strength  restored) 
A  rapturous  life  of  Christian  freedom,  mask'd 
In  what  but  servitude  had  been  to  one 
Lacking  vocation  true.     The  Life  Divine, 


182 


THE   SISTERS. 


"  Hidden  with  God,"  is  hidden  from  the  world, 

Lest  Virtue  should  be  dimm'd  by  Virtue's  praise. 

Heroic  Virtue  least  by  men  is  prized  : 

The  hero  in  the  saint  the  crowd  can  honor, 

The  saint  at  best  forgive.     To  this  world's  ken 

Convents,  of  sanctity  chief  citadels, 

(Though  sanctity  in  every  place  is  found,) 

The  snowy  banners  and  bright  oriflambs 

Of  that  resplendent  realm  by  Counsels  ruled, 

Not  Precept  only,  spread  in  vain,  despised, 

Or  for  their  earthly  good  alone  revered, 

Not  for  their  claims  celestial.     Different  far 

The  lesson  Mary  learn'd.     The  poor  were  fed, 

The  orphan  nursed  ;  around  the  sick  man's  couch 

Gentle  as  light  hover'd  the  healing  hand  ; 

And  beautiful  seem'd,  on  mountain-tops  of  truth, 

The  foot  that  brought  good  tidings  !     Times  of  trial 

Were  changed  to  Sabbaths  ;  and  the  rude,  rough  girl, 

Waiting  another  service,  found  a  home 

Where  that  which  years  had  marr'd  return'd  once  more 

Like  infant  flesh  clothing  the  leprous  limb. 

Yet  these  things  Mary  found  were  blossoms  only  : 

The  tree's  deep  root  was  secret.     From  the  Vow 

Which  bound  the  Will's  infinitude  to  God, 

Upwell'd  that  peaceful  strength  whose  fount  was  God  : 

From  Him  behind  His  sacramental  veil 

In  holy  passion  for  long  hours  adored, 

Came  that  great  Love  which  made  the  bonds  of  earth 

Needless,    thence    irksome.      Wondering,    there    she 

learn'd 

The  creature  was  not  for  the  creature  made, 
But  for  the  sole  Creator  ;  tnat  His  kingdom, 


THE  SISTERS.  183 

Glorious  hereafter,  lies  around  us  here, 

Its  visible  splendor  painfully  suppressing, 

And  waiting  its  transfigurance.     Was  it  strange, 

If  while  those  Brides  of  Christ  around  her  moved 

Her  heart  sang  hymns  to  God  ?     Much  had  she  suf- 

fer'd  : 

Much  of  her  suffering  gladly  there  she  learn'd 
Came  of  her  fault ;  and  much  had  kindliest  ends 
Not  yet  in  her  fulfill'd.     A  light  o'ershone  her 
Which  slays  Illusion,  that  white  snake  which  slimes 
The  labyrinth  of  self-love's  more  tender  ways — 
Virtue's  most  specious  mimic.     She  was  loosed : 
The  actual  by  the  seeming  thraldom  slain  ; 
Her  life  was  from  within  and  from  above  ; 
And  as,  when  Winter  dies,  and  Spring  new-born 
Her  whisper  breathes  o'er  earth,  the  earlier  flowers 
(Unlike  the  wine-dark  growths  of  Autumn,  dipped 
In  the  year's  sunset)  rise  in  lightest  hues, 
An  astral  gleam,  white,  green,  or  delicate  yellow, 
More  light  than  color,  so  the  maiden's  thoughts 
Flash'd  with  a  radiance  that  permitted  scarce 
Human  affections  tragic.     Oft,  she  told  me, 
As  faithless  to  old  friends  she  blamed  herself: — 
One  hand  touched  Calvary,  one  the  Eternal  Gates  ; 
The  present  nothing  seem'd.     The  years  pass'd  on  : 
The  honeymoon  of  this  heart-bridal  waned ; 
But  nothing  of  its  spousal  truth  was  lost, 
Nor  of  its  serious  joy.     If  failures  came — 
And  much  she  marvell'd  at  her  slow  advance, 
And  for  the  first  time  (pierced  by  that  stern  grace 
Wherein  no  sin  looks  trivial)  fear'd  ; — what  then  ? 
Failures  that  deepen'd  humbleness  but  sank 


l84  THE    SISTERS. 

Foundations  deeper  for  a  loftier  pile 

Of  solid  virtue  :  transports  homeward  summon'd 

For  more  disinterested  love  made  way, 

More  perfect  made  Obedience. 

If  a  Soul, 

Half-way  to  heaven,  death  past,  once  more  to  earth 
Were  sent,  it  could  but  feel  as  Mary  felt 
When  on  the  convent  grates  a  letter  smote 
Loud,  harsh,  with  summons  from  the  outward  world. 
Her  sister,  such  its  tidings,  was  a  wife, 
(That  matron  whom  you  praised  : — ay,  comely  is  she, 
And  good  ;  laborious,  kindly,  faithful,  true  ; 
Yet  Time  has  done  Time's  work,  her  spiritual  beauty 
Transposing  gently  to  a  lower  key  ;) 
Her  grandmother  bereft,  and  weak  through  age, 
Needed  her  tendance  sorely.     Would  she  come  ? 
Alas  !  what  could  she  ?  Duty  stretched  from  far 
An  iron  hand  that  stay'd  her  mounting  steps  ; 
The  little  novices  wept  loud,  "  Abide  !  " 
Long  on  her  neck  the   saintly  sisterhood 
Hung  ere  they  bless'd  her  :   then  she  turn'd  and  went. 

And  so  once  more  she  trod  this  rocky  vale, 
And  scarcely  older  look'd  at  twenty-six 
Than  at  sixteen.     Before  so  gentle,  now 
A  humbler  gentleness  was  o'er  her  thrown ; 
Nor  ruffled  was  she  ever  as  of  yore 
With  gusts  of  flying  spleen  :    nor  fear'd  she  now 
Hindrance  unlovely,  or  the  word  that  jarr'd. 
The  sadness  hers  at  first  dispers'd  ere  long, 
And  such  strange  sweetness  came  to  her,  men  said 
A  mad  dog  would  not  bite  her.     Lowliest  toils 


THE   SISTERS.  185 

Were  by  her  hand  ennobled  :     Labor's  staff 

Beneath  it  burst  in  blossom.     In  the  garden, 

'Mid  earliest  birds,  and  singing  like  a  bird, 

She  moved,  her  grandmother  asleep.     She  mix'd 

The  reverence  due  to  years  with  tenderness 

The  infant's  claim.     'Twas  hers  the  crutch  to   bring, 

Nor  mark  the  lameness  ;  hers  with  question  apt 

To  prompt,  not  task,  the  memory.      Tales  twice-told 

Wearied  not  her,  nor  orders  each   with  each 

At  odds,  nor  causeless  blame.     Wiles  she  had  many 

To  anticipate  harsh  moods,  lest  one  rash  word 

Might  draw  a  cloud  'twixt  helpless  eld  and  heaven, 

Blotting  the  Eternal  Vision  felt,  not  seen, 

By  hearts  in  grace.     With  works  of  gay  caprice, 

Needless — yet  prized — she  made  the  spectre  Want 

Seem  farther  off.     Thus  love  in  narrow  space 

Built  a  great  world.     The  grandmother  preferr'd 

To  her,  that  dreamful  girl  of  old,  the   woman 

Who  from  the    mystic  precinct  first  had  learn'd 

Humanity,  yet  seem'd  a  human  creature 

By  some  angelic  guest  o'er-ruled.     At  heart 

Ever  a  nun,  she  minister'd  with  looks 

That  heal'd  the  sick.     The  newly-widow'd  door 

Its  gloom  remitted  when  she  pass'd  ;    stern  foes 

Down  trod  their  legend  of  old  wrongs.     To  her 

Sacred    were    those    that    grieved;  —  those    tearless 

yet 

Sacred  scarce  less  because  they  smiled,  nor  knew 
The  ambush'd  fate  before  them.     When  a  child, 
Grey-hair'd  companionship  or  solitude 
Had  pleased  her  more  than  childish  ways ;  but  now 
All  the  long  eves  of  summer  in  the  porch 


1 86  THE  SISTERS. 

The  children  of  her  sister  and  the  neighbors, 

A  spotless  flock,   sat  round  her.     From  her  smiles 

The  sluggish  mind  caught  light,  the  timid  heart 

Courage  and  strength.     Unconscious  thus,  each  day 

Her  soft  and  blithesome  feet  one  letter  traced 

In  God's  great  Book  above.     So  pass'd  her   life  ; — 

Sorrow  had  o'er  it  hung  a  gentle  cloud  ; 

But,  like  an  autumn-mocking  day  in  Spring, 

Dewy  and  dim,  yet  ending  in  pure  gold, 

The  sweets  were  sweeter  for  the  rain,  the  growth 

Stronger  for  shadow. 

^ou  have  seen  her  tomb  ! 
Upon  the  young  and  beautiful  it  closed  : 
Her  grandmother  yet  lingers!     What  is  Time? 
Shut  out  the  sun,  and  all  the  summer  long 
The  fruit-tree  stands  as  barren  as  the  rock  ; 
May's  offering   March  can  bring  us.     Of  the  twain 
The  younger  doubtless  in  the  eyes  of  God 
Had  inly  lived  the  longest.     She  had  learn'd 
From  action  much,  from  suffering  more,  far  more, 
For  stern  Experience  is  a   sword  whose  point 
Makes  way  for  Truth.      Her  trials,  great  and  little, 
And  trials  ever  keep  proportion  just 
With  high  vocations,  and  the  spirit's  growth, 
Had  done  their  work  till  all   her  inner  being 
Freed  from  asperities,  in  the  light  of  God 
Shone  like  the  feet  of  some  old  crucifix 
Kiss'd  into  smoothness.     Here  I  fain  would  end, 
Leaving  her  harbor'd ;   but  her  stern,  kind  fates 
Not  thus  forewent  her.     Like  her  life  her  death, 
Not  negative  or  neutral ;   great  in  pains, 
In  consolations  greater.     Many  a  week 


THE   SISTERS.  187 

Much  ail'd  her ;  what  the  cause  remain'd  in  doubt ; 

When  certainty  had  come   she   trembled  not. 

Fix'd  was  her  heart.      Those  pangs  that   shook  her 

frame, 

Like  tempests  roaring  round  a  mountain  church, 
Shook  not  that  peace  within  her  !     She  was  thank 
ful ; 

"  More  pain  if  such  Thy  Will,  and  patience  more, 
This  was  her  prayer  ;  or  wiping  from  moist  eyes 
The  trembling  tear,  she  whisper'd,  "  Give  me,  Lord, 
On  earth  Thy  cleansing  fire  that  I  may  see 
Sooner  Thy  Face,  death  past !" 

Alleviations, 

Many  and  great,  God  granted  her.     Once  more 
Her  sister  was  her  sister  !     Unlike  fortunes 
Had  placed  at  angles  those  two  lives  that  once 
Lay  side  by  side  ;  and  love  that  could  not  die 
Had  seem'd  to  sleep.     It  woke  ;   and,  as  from  mist, 
Once  more  shone  out  their  childhood!     Laugh'd  and 

flash'd 

Once  more  the  garden-beds  whose  bright  accost 
Had  cheered  them  for  their  parents  mourning.  Tears 
Remember'd  stay'd  the  course  of  later  tears  ; 
The  prosperous  from  the  unprosperous  sister  sought 
Heart-peace ;    nor  wealth   nor  care   could   part  them 

more  ; 

And  sometimes  Margaret's  children  seem'd  to  her 
As  children  of  another  !     Greetings  sweet 
Cheer'd  her  from  distant  regions.     Once  it  chanced 
The  nuns  a  relic  sent  her  ne'er  before 
Seen  in  our  vales,  a  fragment  of  that  Cross 
Whereon  the  world's  Redeemer  hung  three  hours  : — 


i88 


THE   SISTERS. 


The  neighbors  entering  knelt  and  wept,  and  smote 
Their  breasts  ;   her  hands  she  raised  in  prayer ;  and 

straight 

Such  Love,  such  Reverence  in   her  heart  there  rose 
Her  anguish,  like  a  fiend  exorcised,  fled ; 
And  for  an  hour  at  peace  she  lay  as   one 
Imparadised.     A  solace  too  was   hers 
Known  but  to  babes.      Her  body,  not  her  mind, 
Was  rack'd  ;   the  pang  to  come  she  little  fear'd, 
Nor  lengthen'd  out  morose  the  pang  foregone  : 
Once  o'er,  to   sleep  she  sank  in  thankful  prayer. 

A  week  ere  Mary  died  all  suffering  left  her  ; 
And  from  the  realms  of  glory  beams,  as  though 
Further  restraint  they  brook'd  not,  fell  on  her 
Yet  militant  below,  as  there  she  lay 
In  monumental  whiteness,  spirit-lit 
The  anthems  of  her  convent  charm'd  once  more 
Her  dreams  ;   and  scents  from  woods  where  she  had 

sat 

In  tears.     Then  spake  she  of  her  wandering  days ; — 
Herself  she  scarcely  seem'd  to  see  in  them  ; 
Plainly  thus  much   I  saw  :    When  all  went  well, 
Danger  stood  nigh  ;   but   soon  as  sorrow  came, 
Within  that  darkness  nearer  by  her  side 
Walk'd  her  good  Angel.      In  that  latest  week 
Some  treasures  hidden  ever  near  her  heart 
She  show'd  me  :    faded  flowers  ;   her  mother's  hair ; 
Gold  pieces  that  have  raised  our  chapel's  Cross ; 
A  riband  by  her  youthful  comrade  worn  : — 
Upon  its  cover  some  few  words   I  found 
There  traced  when  first  beyond  the  western  main 


THE  SISTERS.  189 

She  heard  the  homeless  cuckoo's  cry  well-known  : 
"  When  will  my  People  to  their  land  return  ?" 

From  the  first  hour  her  grandchild  sank,  once  more 
She  that  for  years  bed  ridden  lay,  had  risen, 
And,   autumn  past,  put  forth  a  wintry  strength, 
Ministering.       Her    frame    was    stronger    than    her 

mind  ; 

O'er  that  at  times  a  dimness  hung,  like  cloud 
That  creeps   from  pine  to  pine.      Inly  she   miss'd 
Her  wonted  place  of  homage  lost  ;   she  mused 
Sadly  upon  the  solitary  future  ; 
But  in  her  there  abode  a  rock-like  will, 
And  from  her  tearless  service  night  or  day 
No  man  might  push  her.     Seldom  spake  the  woman  : 
She  call'd  her  grandchild  by  her  daughter's  name, 
(Her  daughter  buried  thirty  years  and  more,) 
And  once  she  said  in  wrath,  "Why  toil  they  thus  ? 
Nora  is  dead."      She  labored  till  the  end  : 
It  came — that  mortal  close  !     'Twas  Christmas  Eve ; 
Far,  far  away  were  heard  the  city  bells  : 
The  sufferer  slept.      At  midnight  I  went  forth  ; 
Along  the  ice-film'd  road  a  dull  gleam  lay, 
And  a  sepulchral  wind  in  woods   far  off 
Sang  dirges  deep.      Upon  her  crutches  bent 
The  aged  woman  stood  beside  the  door, 
With  that  long  gaze  intense  which  is  an  act 
Silently  looking  toward  that  hill  of  graves 
We  trod  to-day  ;   a  sinking  moon  shone  o'er  it — 
Then  whisper'd  she — the  light  of  buried  years 
Edging  once  more  her  eyes — "  Each   Saturday, 
Of  those  that  in  that  churchyard  sleep  three  Souls, 
Their  penance  done,  ascend,  and  are  with  God." 


19°  THE   SISTERS. 

Thus   as   she   spake   a   cry   was   heard  within, 
And  many  voices  raised   the    Litany 
For  a  departing  Soul.      Long   time — too  long — 
Had  seem'd  that  dying  !      Now  the  hour  was  come, 
And   change   ineffable   announced   that   Death 
At  last  was   standing  on   the  floor.      O   hour  ! 
When   in  brief  space   our   life   is   lived   again  ! 
Down   cast   the   latest   stake  !   when   fiends   ascend, 
Beckoning   the   phantoms   of  forgotten   sins 
Conscience   to   scare,   or  launching   as   from   slings 
Temptations   new  ;   while   Angels   hold   before   us 
The    Cross   unshaken   as   the   sun   in   heaven, 
And  whisper,   "  Christ."     O   hour  !    when   prayer  is 

all; 

And   they  that   clasp  the   hand   are   thrown   apart 
By  the  world's  breadth  from  that  they  love  !      The 

act 

Sin's   dread  bequest,  that  makes   an  end  of  sinning, 
Long  lasted,   while   the   heart-strings   snapt,   and  all 
The  elements   of  the  wondrous   sensuous  world 
Slid   from   the  fading  sense,  and   those  poor  fingers, 
As   the   loose   precipice   of  life   down   crumbled, 
Pluck'd  as  at  roots.      Storm-wing'd  the  hours  rush'd 

by; 

There  lay  she  like  some  bark  on  midnight  seas, 
Now  toiling  through   the   windless   vale,   anon 
Hurled  on  and  up   to   meet  the   implacable   blast 
Upon   the   rolling  ridge,   when    not   a   foot 
Can   tread   the  decks,   and   all   the   sobbing  planks 
Tremble   o'erspent.       The    morning  dawned   at  last, 
Whitening  the  frosty  pane  ;   the   lights  removed, 
(Save   that   tall   candle   in   her   hand   sustained 


THE   SISTERS.  19! 

By  others,)  she  descried  it  :    "  Ah  !"   she  said, 
"  Thank   God  !    another   day  !"     Then,    noting   one 
Who   near  her  knelt,  she   said,  "  The   night  is  sped, 
And  you   have  had   no   sleep  ;   alas  !    I    thought 
Ere   midnight   I    should  die."      Her  eyelids   closed  ; 
Into  a  sleep  as   quiet  as   a  babe's 
Gradual   she   sank  ;    and   while    the   ascending   sun 
Shot  'gainst   the  western   hill   his   earliest   beam, 
In   sleep,   without  a  sigh,   her  spirit  pass'd. 

I   would  you  could  have  seen  her  face  in  death  ! 
I    would  you  could  have   heard   that  last  dread  rite, 
The   mighty   Mother's,   o'er    the   stormy  gulf 
And   all   the   meanings    of  the    unknown   abyss 
Flinging  victorious   anthems,    or   the    strength 
Of  piercing   prayer  :    "  Oh  !    ye  at  least,  my  friends. 
Have   pity   on   me  !    plead   for   me   with    God  !" 
That  Rite   complete,   the   dark   procession   wound 
Interminably   through   the   fields    and   farms, 
While    wailing   like    a   midnight   wind,    the   keen 
Expired  o'er  moor  and   heath.      At   eve  we   reach'd 
The   graveyard  ;    slowly,  as    to-day,    the    sun 
Behind   a   tomb-like   bank   of  leaden   cloud 
Dropt   while   the   coffin    sank,    and   died   away 

The  latest  Miserere 

More   than   once 

I   would  have  ceased  ;   but  he,  my  friend  and  guest, 
Or   touch'd   or   courteous,    will'd   me    to    proceed. 
Perhaps    that   tale   the   wild   scene   harmonized 
By   sympathy   occult  ;    perhaps    it   touch'd   him, 
Contrasting   with   his    recent   life — with    England, 
With    Oxford,    long   his    home  ;    its    order'd   pomp  ; 
Its   intermingled  groves,   and   fields,    and   spires, 


I92  THE  SISTERS. 

Its  bridges   spanning  waters    calm   and   clear  ; 
The   frequentation   of  its    courts  ;    its    chimes  ; 
Its    sunset   towers,    and   strangely   youthful   gardens 
That   breathe    the    ardors    of  the   budding   year 
On   the   hoar  breadth   of  grove-like   cloisters   old, 
Chapels,   and  libraries,   and   statued  halls, 
England's    still   saintly    City !      Time    has    there 
A   stone    tradition   built  like   that   all    round 
Woven  by   the   inviolate   hedges,    where   the   bird 
Her  nest   has   made   and  warbled   to   her  young, 
May  after    May   secure,    since    the    third    Edward 
Held  his   last   tournament,    and    Chaucer   sang 
To   Blanche   and   to    Philippa  lays   of  love — 
Not  like   lernian  records.      Sad  we  rose, 
That  tale  complete  ;    and  after  silence,  long, 
As  homeward  through   the  braided  forest-skirt 
We  trod  the  moonlight-spotted  rocks,  my  friend 
Resumed,  with  pregnant  matter  oft  more  just 
In    thought   than   application  ;  but   his   voice 
Was   softer  than   it  used   to   be.      At   last, 
After  our   home   attain'd,   we   turn'd,   and  lo  ! 
With   festal   fires   the   hills   were  lit  !      Thine   eve, 
Saint  John,  had  come  once  more  ;   and  for  thy  sake, 
As   though   but   yesterday   thy   crown   were   won, 
Amid   their   ruinous   realm    uncomforted 
The    Irish   people   triumph'd.      Gloomy   lay 
The   intermediate   space  ;    thence   brightlier  burn'd 
The   circling   fires   beyond   it.      "  Lo  !"    said    I, 
"  Man's   life   as   view'd   by    Ireland's    sons  ;    a   vale 
With   many  a  pitfall  throng'd,  and  shade,  and  briar, 
Yet  overblown  by  angel-haunted  airs, 
And  by  the   Light   Eternal  girdled   round." 


THE   SISTERS.  193 

Brief  supper  passed,   within   the   porch   we   sat 
As  fire  by  fire  burn'd  low.     We  spake  ;  were  mute  ; 
Resumed  ;   but   our   discourse   was   gently   toned, 
(Touched  by  a   spirit   from   that  wind-beaten   grave, 
Which   breathed   among   its   pauses,)   as   of  old 
That  converse    Bede   records,   when  by   the   sea, 
'Twixt  Tyne   and   Wear,  facing  toward   Lindisfarne, 
Saxon    Ceolfrid   and   his    Irish   guest, 
Evangelist   from   old    lona's    isle, 
'Mid  the   half  Pagan   land   in   cloisters   dim 
Discuss'd   the   Tonsure,   and   the   Paschal   time, 
Sole   themes   whereon,    in   sacred  doctrine   one, 
They  differ'd  ;   but   discuss'd   them   in   such   sort 
That  mutual   reverence   deeper  grew.      We   heard 
The   bridgeless   brook    that   sang  far  off,    and   sang 
Alone  :    for  not   among   us   builds   that  bird 
Which   changes   light  to   music,    haply   ill-pleased 
That   Ireland  bears   not  yet,   in    song's   domain 
To   Spenser  worthy  fruit.      Our  beds   at  last, 
Wearied,  yet  glad,  we   sought.      Ere  long  the  wind, 
Gathering  its   manifold  voices   and   the  might 
Of  all  its   wills   in    valleys   far,   and   roll'd 
From  wood   to  wood  o'er  ridge   and   ravine,    woke 
A   hundred  peaks   to   me  by  sound  well   known, 
That  stood  dark   cluster'd  in   the  night,   and   hung 
With  rainy  skirt  o'er  lake  and  prone  morass, 
Or  by  sea-bays  lean'd  out  procumbent  brows, 
Waiting  the  rising  sun. 

At  morn  we  met 

Once  more,  my  friend  and  I.     The  evening's  glow 
Had  from  his  feelings  pass'd  :    in  their  old  channels 


194  THE   SISTERS. 

They  flovv'd,  scarce   tinged.     But  still  his    thoughts 

retain'd 

The  trace  of  late  impressions  quaintly  link'd 
With  kindred   thought-notes  earlier.     Half  his  mind 
Scholastic  was  ;  his  fancy  deep ;  the  age 
Alone  had  stamp'd  him  modern.     Much  he  spake 
Of  England  wise  and  wealthy — now  no  more, 
He  said,  "a  haughty  nation  proud   in  arms," 
Nor,  as  in  Saxon  times,  a  crowned  child 
Propp'd    'gainst     the    Church's    knee;     but    ocean's 

Queen, 

Spanning  the  world  with  golden  zone  twm-clasp'd 
By  Commerce  and  by  Freedom  !     But  no  less 
Of  pride  and  suffering  spake  he,  and  that  frown 
Sun-press'd  on  brows  once  pure.    Of  Ireland  next  :— 
"  How  strange  a  race,  more  apt  to  fly  than  walk  ; 
Soaring  yet  slight ;    missing   the  good   things   round 

them, 

Yet  ever  out  of  ashes  raking  gems  ; 
In  instincts  loyal,  yet  respecting  ^aw 
Far  less  than  usage  :  changeful,  yet  unchanged  ! 
Timid,  yet  enterprising :  frank,  yet  secret : 
Untruthful  oft  in  speech,  yet  living  truth, 
And  truth  in  things  divine  to  life  preferring : — 
Scarce     men  ;  —  yet     possible     angels  !  —  '  Isle     of 

Saints  ! ' 

Such  doubtless  was  your  land — again  it  might  be — 
Strong,  prosperous,  manly  never  !  ye  are  Greeks 
In  intellect,  and  Hebrews  in  the  soul  : — 
The  solid  Roman  heart,  the  corporate  strength 
Is  England's  dower!"     "Unequally  if  so," 
I  said,  "in  your  esteem  the  Isles  are  match'd : — 


THE  SISTERS.  195 

They  live  in  distant  ages,  alien  climes  ; 
Native  they  are  to  diverse  elements  : 
Our  swan  walks  awkwardly  upon  dry  land  ; 
Your  boasted  strength  in  spiritual  needs  so  helps  you 
As  armor  helps  the  knight  who  swims  a  flood." 
He  laugh'd.     "  At  least  no  siren  streams  for  us, 
Nor  holy  wells  !     We  love  '  the  fat  of  the  land,' 
Meads  such  as  Rubens  painted  !     Strange  our  fates  ! 
Our  feast  is  still  the  feast  of  fox  and  stork, 
The  platter  broad,  and  amphora  long-neck'd ; — 
111  sorted  yoke-mates  truly.     Strength,  meanwhile, 
Lords    it    o'er   weakness ! "      "  Never    yet,"    I    an- 

swer'd, 

"  Was  husband  vassal  to  an  intricate  wife 
But  roar'd  he  ruled   her ;"  ere  his  smile  had  ceased, 
Continuing    thus  :  —  "  Ay  !    strength    o'er    weakness 

rules  ! 
Strength    hath    in    this    no    choice.       But    what    is 

Strength  ? 

Two  Strengths  there  are.     Club-lifting  Hercules, 
A  mountain'd  mass  of  gnarl'd  and  knotted   sinews, 
How  shows  he  near  the  intense,  Phcebean  Might 
That,    godlike,    spurns    the    ostent    of    thews    o'er- 

grown  ; 

That  sees  far  off  the  victory  fix'd  and  sure, 
And,  without  effort,  wings  the  divine  death 
Like  light,  into  the  Python's  heart  ?— My  friend, 
Justice  is  strength  ;  union  on  justice  built ; — 
Good-will   is  strength  —  kind  words  —  silence  —  that 

truth 
Which    hurls    no    random    charge.       Your    scribes 

long  time 


196  THE  SISTERS. 

Blow  on  our  island  like  a   scythed  wind: 
The  good  they  see  not,  nor  the  cause  of  ill : 
They    tear     the     bandage     from     the     wound     half- 

heal'd  :— 

In  not  such  onset  weakness  ?     Were  it  better, 
Tell  me,  free-trader  staunch,  for  sister  Nations 
To  make  exchange  for  aye  of  scorn  for  scorn, 
Or  blend  the  nobler  powers  and  aims  of  each, 
Diverse,  and  for  that  cause  correlative, 
True  commerce,  noblest,  holiest,  frankest,  best, 
And  breed  at  last  some  destiny  to  God 
Glorious,  and  kind  to  man  ? — The  choice  is  yours. 


Thus  as  we  spake,  the  hall  clock  vast  and  old, 
A  waif  from  Spain's  Armada,  chimed  eleven  : 
And  from  the  stables  drew  a  long-hair'd  boy 
Who  led   a  horse  as  shaggy  as  a  dog, 
A  splenetic  child  of  thistles  and  hill  blast, 
Rock-ribb'd,  and  rich  in  craft  of  every  race 
From  weasel  to  the  beast  that  feigns  to  die. 
Mounting — alas  !  that  friends  should  ever  part, — 
My  guest  bade  thus  adieu : — "  For  good  or  ill 
Our    lands    are    link'd."      And    I    rejoined,    "  For 

which  ? — 

This  shall  you  answer  when,  your  pledge  fulfill'd, 
Before  the  swallow  you  return,  and  meet 
The  unblown   Spring  in  our  barbaric  vale." 


ODE    TO    THE  DAFFODIL. 


ODE  TO  THE  DAFFODIL. 


O   LOVE-STAR  of  the  unbeloved  March, 
When,  cold  and  shrill, 

Forth  flows  beneath  a  low,  dim-lighted  arch 

The  wind  that  beats  sharp  crag  and  barren  hill, 
And  keeps  unfilm'd  the  lately  torpid  rill ! 


A  week  or  e'er 
Thou  com'st,  thy  soul  is  round  us  everywhere  ; 

And  many  an  auspice,   many  an  omen, 

Whispers,  scarce-noted,   thou  art  coming. 
Huge,   cloud-like   trees  grow   dense  with  sprays  and 
buds, 

And  cast  a  shapelier  gloom  o'er  freshening  grass, 
And  through  the  fringe  of  ragged   woods 

More   shrouded   sunbeams   pass. 
Fresh   shoots   conceal   the  pollard's   spike 

The   driving   rack   outbraving ; 
The   hedge   swells   large   by  ditch   and   dike  ; 
And   all   the   uncolor'd   world   is   like 

A   shadow-limn'd   engraving. 

in. 

Herald  and  harbinger  !    with   thee 
Begins   the  year's  great  jubilee  ! 


19  ODE    TO   THE   DAFFODIL. 

Of  her   solemnities   sublime 
(A   sacristan  whose   gusty   tape- 
Flashes   through   earliest   morning   vapor) 

Thou   ring'st  dark  nocturns   and  dim   prime. 
Birds  that  have   yet  no  heart  for  song 

Gain   strength  with   thee  to   twitter ; 
And,   warm  at  last,   where  hollies   throng, 

The   mirror'd   sunbeams  glitter. 
With   silk   the   osier  plumes   her   tendrils   thin : 

Sweet  blasts,  though  keen  as  sweet,  the  blue  lake 

wrinkle ; 
And  buds   on  leafless  boughs   begin 

Against  grey  skies  to   twinkle. 


IV. 


To   thee   belongs 

A  pathos  drown'd  in  later  scents   and  songs! 
Thou   com'st  when    first  the  Spring 

On  Winter's   verge   encroaches ; 
When  gifts   that  speed   on   wounded  wing 

Meet  little   save   reproaches ! 
Thou  com'st   when  blossoms   blighted, 

Retracted   sweets,   and   ditty, 
From   suppliants    oft   deceived  and  spited 

More  anger   draw   than  pity  ! 
Thee   the   old   shepherd,   on   the   bleak  hill-side, 

Far  distant   eyeing  leans   upon   his  staff 
Till  from  his  cheek  the  wind-brush'd  tear  is  dried 

In   thee  he   spells   his   boyhood's  epitaph. 


ODE   TO   THE  DAFFODIL,  1 99 

To   thee  belongs   the  youngling   of  the   flock, 
When   first  it  lies,   close-huddled   from   the   cold, 

Between  the  sheltering   rock 
And  gorse-bush   slowly  over-crept  with  gold. 

v. 

Thou  laugh'st,   bold  outcast,   bright  as  brave, 
When   the   wood   bellows,   and   the   cave, 
And   leagues   inland   is   heard  the  wave ! 
Hating   the   dainty  and  the   fine 
As   sings   the  blackbird   thou  dost  shine  ! 
Thou    com'st    while  yet  on   mountain  lawns  high  up 
Lurks     the     last    snow-wreath  :  —  by    the    berried 

breer 
While   yet  the   black  spring  in   its   craggy  cup 

No   music  makes   or   charms   no   listening  ear. 
Thou   com'st  while  from  the  oak  stock  or  red  beech 
Dead   Autumn    scoffs    young    Spring  with   splenetic 

speech  ; — 

When  in   her   vidual   chastity  the   Year 
With   frozen  memories   of  the   sacred  past 

Her    doors   and   heart   makes   fast, 
And  loves  no  flower  save  those  that  deck  the  bier  : — 
Ere   yet   the   blossom'd   sycamore 
With   golden   surf  is   curdled   o'er ; 
Ere  yet   the   birch  against   the   blue 
Her  silken  tissue  weaves  anew. 

Thou  com'st  while,  meteor-like  'mid  fens,  the  weed 
Swims,  wan  in  light ;  while  sleet-showers  whitening 

glare  ;— 

Weeks  ere  by  river-brims,  new  furr'd,   the  reed 
Leans  its  green  javelin  level  in  the  air. 


200  A    TALE   OF   THE  MODERN   TIME. 

VI. 

Child  of  the   strong  and   strenuous    East  ! 
Now  scatter'd   wide   o'er   dusk   hill   bases, 
Now   mass'd   in   broad,   illuminate   spaces ; — 

Torch-bearer  at   a   wedding   feast 
Whereof  thou   may'st   not   be   partaker, 
But   mime,   at  most,    and   merry-maker ; — 
Phosphor   of  an   ungrateful   sun 
That  rises   but  to  bid  thy  lamp  begone  : — 

Farewell  !    I    saw 

Writ  large    on  woods   and   lawns    to-day  that    Law 
Which   back   remands  thy  race   and  thee 
To   hero-haunted  shades   of  dark   Persephone. 
To-day   the   Spring  has   pledged  her   marriage  vow: 

Her  voice,   late   tremulous,  strong   has  grown  and 

steady  : 
To-day   the   Spring  is   crown'd   a   queen  :    but  thou 

Thy  winter  hast  already ! 
Take   my   song's   blessing,   and   depart, 

Type  of  true   service — unrequited  heart. 


A   TALE 

OF    THE    MODERN    TIME. 

PART  I. 
I. 

AN  old  man  once   I   knew  whose   aged  hair 
A   summer  brilliance   evermore   retained  : 

Youthful   his   voice   and   full,  not   flawed   nor   spare  ; 
His  cheek  all  smooth,  and  like  a  child's  engrained 


A    TALE   OF  THE   MODERN  TIME.  2OI 

Or  marble  altar   innocently  stained 
With   roses   mirrored  in   its   tablet  white — 
Like  May  his   eye  :    his   foot-fall   slow  but  light. 


ii. 

Yet  no   one   marvelled  at  him  :    of  his  ways 
Rarely  men   spake,   as   of  the  buried  dead  ; 

And  dropped  him  from  their  lips  with  trivial  phrase. 
"  Gentle  he  was,  and  kind,"  the  neighbors  said, 
"  Albeit  an  idle  life,  and  vain,  he  led." 

Odors   he   loved  from  flowers   at  twilight  dim  ; 

And  breath  and  song  of  morn :  children  loved  him. 


in. 

I   have  beheld   him  on   a  wintry  plant 
An   eye   delighted   bending   full   an   hour, 

As   though    the    Spring   o'er   every   tendril   scant 
Crept    'neath   his   ken  !      Methought   he   had   the 

power 
To   see   the   growing    root  plain   as   the   flower. 

O'er  a  leaf's   margin   he   would  pore   and   gaze 

As   o'er  some  problem  of  the   starry  maze  ! 


IV. 

Over  a  rose   his  palm  he   loved   to   curve 

As   though   it  brought  him  warmth   from   out   the 
ground : 

Instinctively  his   step   would   often  swerve 
Following  slow  streams  that  down  in  darkness  wound : 


2O2  A    TALE   OF  THE  MODERN  TIME. 

His   body  there   he  bent  above   the   sound, 
Heard  but  by  him.     Some   virgin   world   he  trod, 
As   though   it  were   the  vesture   of  a  god. 


v. 


I  wondered  at  him  long :    but  youth   and  awe 
Restrained  me  from  demanding   of  his   story. 

At  last,   it  chanced  one   day,   this   man    I    saw 
Reclining   'neath   an  oak  rifted   and  hoary, 
Last  tree  of  a  wild,   woodland  promontory : 

Far  round,   below,   the   forest  deep   and   warm 

Lay  waving  in  the  light  of  an   illumined   storm. 


VI. 


I   placed    me   at  his  feet :    his    eyes  were   closed — 

Celestial  brightness  hung  upon   his    mien, 
And   all   his   features,    tranquilly   composed : 

I   gazed   on   him,   and   cried,    "Where    hast    thou 

been 
In    youth  ?     What   done,  what    read,  what  heard, 

what  seen  ?" 

Irreverent  was   the  inquest :    yet   the   man 
Looked  on  me  with   a  smile,    and  thus   began. 


VII. 

The   Tale,  true   told,   of  every  Human   Being 
Were   awful — yet   upon    each    new-born    child, 

As   though   none   lived   beside,    the    Eye    All-seeing 
Rested  in  glory  !    Heaven  looked  down  and  smiled  : 


A    TALE   OF   THE  MODERN  TIME.  203 

And  choirs   of  joyful   Angels    undenled 
Around   the   cradle   sang,  and   evermore 
In  youth  walked  near  him,   after,   and  before. 

VIII. 

Stranger !    the  veil  of  Sense   in   mercy  hides 
The   perils   round  us,   as   the   mercies  !     Say, 

Amid    the   forests — on  the   mountain   sides — 

What   miles   of  mazes   hast   thou   tracked   to-day  ? 
Had   some  black  chasm  girt  visibly  thy  way, 

Couldst   thou  secure  have  wandered  thus  ?  Not  so — 

The  danger  is  not  ours  while  danger  none  we  know. 

IX. 

My  life   hath  been   a  marvel  :    thine  no  less. 

If  thou   that   marvel   hast   not  yet   discerned, 
Lament    not    therefore.     Unto   wretchedness 
That     Knowledge    grew    for    which    our     parents 

yearned. 

The    best  and  happiest  ofttime  least  have  learned 
Of  Man's    dread  elements — what  dust — what  spirit — 
That   which  we    are,    what    have,    what   make,    and 
what   inherit. 

x. 

Action   in  trance,   in  panic   Thought  were  lost, 
If  all   we   are   we  knew   ourselves   to   be. 

O'er  a  great   deep,   now   calm,    now  tempest-tossed, 
Rises   one   rock ;    but,  hid  below  the   sea, 
That  rock  slants  down — a  mountain  !  Such  are  we — 


204  A    TALE   OF   THE   MODERN    TIME. 

Our  being's    summit   only  o'er  the   deeps 
Ascends  :     the   rest    is   blind,    and   in    the    abysses 
sleeps. 

XI. 

In   Man   the   Finite   from   the   Depth   ascends — 
Centre   is    Man   of  all  men   hear  or   see  ; 

Chapel   where    Time    with    Incorruption    blends, 
Where    Dust   is   wedded    to    Divinity. 
All   but   omnipotent   in   Will   is  he. 

Freedom   his   awful   privilege  !     Like    a    God 

He  walks   at   noon ;   at  night   lies  cold  beneath  the 
sod. 

XII. 

Thou  seekest  Knowledge :  every  lore  we  prize 
But  as  a  lamp  thereby  ourself  to  know. 

Stranger  !  'tis  well  within  to  turn  our  eyes. 

If  we  look  heavenward,  having  turned  them  so, 
Horror  unnamed,  and  phantom  forms  of  woe 

Rebuke  the  haughtier  quest     With  single  aim 

If  thou  my  tale  require,  receive  in  joy  the  same. 


PART    II. 
i. 

HAPPY  my  childhood  was  ;  devout  and  glad  : 
My  youth  was  full  of  glory,  joy,  and  might, 

Like  some  volcanic  morn,  and  tempest-clad, 
In  tropic  regions,  when  from  gulfs  of  night 
Day  leaps  at  once  to  the  empyreal  height. 


A  TALE   OF  THE   MODERN   TIME.  2O$ 

Strength  without  bound   in  spirit,  body,  and  soul, 
I  felt :  and  in  my  rapture  mocked  control. 

II. 

In  the  madness  of  that  strength,  I  went  abroad 
Where'er  Ambition  called,  or  Passion  led : 

Full  many  a  deep  my  ploughing  bark  hath  scored : 
Full  many  a  plain  hath  echoed  to  my  tread : 
All  enterprise  I  sought :  all  books  I  read  : 

All  thoughts  I  pondered,  murmuring  in  my  mirth 

That  text,  "  Be  thou,  O  Man,  the  Lord  of  Earth." 

IIL 

Deeply  I  studied,  in  all  tomes  and  tongues, 
The  Historic  Legend,  Philosophic  page  : 

More  deeply  yet  those  earlier  mythic  songs 
Built  up  by  Bard  for  legislative  Sage, 
Himself  a  builder  up,  from  age  to  age, 

Of  States — true  poems — Policies  sublime, 

Wherein  well-balanced    Functions    metre   make   and 
rhyme. 

IV. 

All  Art  and  Science  at  the  Gentile  feast 

Of  Western  pride  advanced,  I  knew  right  well : 

And  laughed  to  mark  the  great  Book  of  the  East 
Push  on  through  all,  as  through  a  garden  dell 
Bright  with  pale  flowers,  and  paved  with  glittering 
shell, 

Some  Asian  Elephant.     I  sought  within 

For  God,  ancj  there  alone  ;  and  recked  not  of  my  sin. 


2O6  A    TALE   OF   THE   MODERN   TIME. 

V. 

Corporeal  instincts  only  I  denied: 

My  larger  concupiscence  temperance  feigned. 
Humble  oft  seemed  I  through  the  excess  of  pride, 

And  calm  of  conscious  strength.  No  muscle  strained ; 

That  which  the  eye  desired,  the  hand  attained. 
Too  proud  for  Pride's  less  triumphs,  I  had  sworn 
Such  victories  first  to  master, — then  to  scorn. 


VI. 


Was  I  then  wicked?     Child!  applauding  nations, 
Such  question  asked,  had  called  me  great  and  good. 

I  loved  my  kind — but  more  their  acclamations  : 
My  thoughts  were  birds  of  prey,  and  snatched  that 

food 
From  weak  and  strong  to  gorge  their  infant  brood : — 

Much  knowing,  this  I  knew  not.     But  the  hour 

Was  come  that  proved  at  last  my  fancied  power. 


VII. 


One  day  a  mountain's  summit  I  was  pacing : 

Through  cloudy  chasms  the  sunbursts  fell  thereon  ; 

Over  its  plains  the  mighty  winds  were  racing, . 
Quiring  Eolian  anthems  in  loud  tone. 
Long  time  I  walked  in  pride,  and  walked  alone  : 

And  what  I  was  revolved — and  turned  again, 

To  mark  the  far  off  towns  and  visible  main. 


A    TALE  OF  THE  MODERN   TIME.  2O/ 

VIII. 

Man  I  considered  then :  and  I  looked  forth 
Upon  the  works  and  wonders  of  his  hand ; 

The  deep  his  beaten  road,  his  palace  earth  ; 
Commanding  all  things  ;  yet  beneath  command 
Of  Mind — whereof  I  grasped  the  magic  wand. 

— Fronting  the  sun,  that  set  in  blood,  I  saw 

Man's  Shape  against  its  disk ;  and  yet  I  felt  not  awe. 


IX. 


All  treasures  of  my  Thought  again  I  spread 
Unrolled  as  in  a  map  before  my  eyes  ; 

And  walked  among  them  with  a  conqueror's  tread, 
That  moves  o'er  fields  of  hard-won  victories, 
Dreaming  of  mightier  yet.     A  long  disguise 

Fell  from  me  in  that  rapture  ;   and  I  trod 

A  worshipper  no  longer  but  a  God ! 


x. 


Towards  me  a  throne  descended  through  the  air — 
When  lo  !  the  crown  of  my  demoniac  Pride 

Updrawn,  raised  up  my  horror-stricken  hair  ! 
For,  wheresoe'er  I  wandered,  by  my  side 
Another  step  appeared  to  tread  and  glide : 

No  mortal  form  was  near :  and  in  the  abyss 

Of  heaven,  the  mountain  floors  are  echoless. 


20 S  A    TALE   OF   THE   MODERN  TIME. 


XI. 


I  stopped  ;  it  stopped :  I  walked  ;  it  walked  :  I  turned 
My  fears  I  mocked,  unworthy  of  a  man. 

Then  a  cold  poison  from  that  heart  self-spurned 
Welled  forth  :  and  I,  with  eyes  unfilmed,  began 
Once  more  my  life  and  inmost  heart  to  scan : 

Till  suddenly  what  shape  in  soul  I  was 

Before  me  I   beheld  plainly  as  in  a  glass. 


XII. 

Then  my  disease  I  knew ;   but  not  the  cure : 

Lightning,  sent  flaming  from  the  breast  of  heaven, 

Revealed  my  sins  long-hid,  from  lure  to  lure  : 
Beams  from  the  eyes  of  God,  like  shafts  were  driven 
Against  me  :  to  her  depth  my  soul  was  riven, 

Whereof  each  portion,  conscious  and  amazed, 

In  stupor  of  despair  upon  the  other  gazed. 


XIII. 

Thus  on  my  throne,  that  marble  mountain  height, 
My  Soul  I  saw!     I  went  I  know  not  whither: 
Down  like  a  tempest  fell  from  heaven  the  night : 
I  heard  the  sea,  and  rushed  in  panic  thither; 
By  ghost-like  clouds,  and   woods   my   steps   made 

wither, 

And  rock,  and  chasm  that  seemed  to  gape  and  sever, 
I  rushed— and  rushed,   methought,   for   ever  and  for 
ever. 


A    TALE   OF   THE   MODERN   TIME.  2OQ 

PART      III. 
I. 

I  WOKE  in  a  great  cavern  of  the  main  : 
The  wave  rolled  in,  upon  its  strong  breast  bearing 

A  storm  of  icy  wind  and  cloudy  rain, 

With  sound  as  if  of  souls  that  died  despairing  : 
The  billows,  that  rough  beach  harrowing  and  tearing, 

Thundered  far  off:  while  morning,  just  begun, 

Peered   dimly   through   the    spray,   and  through   the 
shadows  dun. 

II. 

That  shore  was  piled  with  death,  like  Nature's  bier. 
There,  whitening   spread  a  sea-beast's  mouldering 
bones : 

The  rifted  wings  of  a  dead  eagle  here  : 
Over  the  wet  cliff  went  funereal  moans  : 
Yet  calm  at  first  I  paced  those  wave-washed  stones, 

Whose  crash  the  deadlier  sound  awhile  could  quell 

Of  that  low  step  close  by,  my  spirit's  knell. 


in. 

Still,  still,  where'er  I    turned  that  step  would  follow. 

My  fate  above  me  hung  as  by  a  thread  : 
Beneath  me  yawned  the  earth,  a  vast  veiled  hollow  ! 

To  battle-fields,  athirst  for  death   I   fled. 

Yet  there,  while  headlong  hosts  beside  me  sped, 
That  footstep  still  I  heard  and  knew  from  all  ; 
Now  harsh,  now  dull  as  moth  fretting  a  coffin's  pall. 


210  A    TALE  OF   THE   MODERN   TIME. 

IV. 

Thick,  thick  like  leaves  from  autumn's  skeleton  woods 
The  shafts  went  by  me,  and  as  idly  went. 

Then  back  I  turned  into  my  solitudes, 

As  slow,  in  sullen  cloud  of  rage  o'er-spent, 
As  mountain  beast  into  dim  forest  tent, 

With  hunger  unabated,  when  the  night 

Melts ;   and  .the  eastern  wolds  spread  wide  in  hated 
light. 


v. 


Stranger  !   I  tell  you  part :    I  speak  not  all. 

Thenceforth  I  walked  alone  ;  and  joined  my  kind 

Only  when  lured  by  some  black  funeral : 
On  capital  cities  oft,  with  watchings  blind, 
I  gazed,  what  time  rushed  forth  the  freezing  wind 

Between  their  turrets  and  the  wintry  stars  ; 

All  day  I  lay  in  tombs,  or  caves  dim-lit  with  spars. 


VI. 


On  peaks  eclipsing  to  its  rim  the  ocean 

Hath  been  my  dwelling:   rivers   I  have  seen* 

Whose  sound  alone  dispersed  a  gradual  motion 
O'er  cloud-like  woods,  their  deep  primeval  screen. 
Sand-worlds  my  feet  have  trod  beneath  the  sheen 

Of  spheres  unnamed.     From  zone  to  zone  I  fled, 

As  though  each  land  in  turn  grew  fire  below  my  tread. 


A    TALE    OF   THE   MODERN   TIME.  211 

VII. 

But  Heaven  had  ended  now  my  time  of  sorrow 
When  most  I  seemed  in  penal  horror  bound  : 

Dreamless  one  night  I  slept,  and  on  the  morrow 
Strange  tears  now  first  amid  the  dew  I  found 
Wherewith  my  heavy  hair  and  cheeks  were  drowned. 

And  in  my  heart,  fanned  by  that  morning  air, 

There  lay,  as  I  walked  on,  my  childhood's  long-lost 
prayer. 


VIII. 


Wearied,  I  sat  upon  a  sunny  bank, 

Ridged  o'er  a  plain  yet  white  with  virgin  snows, 
Though  now  each  balmy  noon,  and  midnight  dank, 

Lightened  the  burden  of  the  vernal  rose  ; 

My  eyes  (their  wont  it  was  till  daylight's  close) 
Fixed  on  my  own  still  shadow — in  that  light 
Intense — keenly  defined,  and  dark  as  night. 


IX. 


I  hung  above  it :  sudden,  by  that  shade 
Another  Shadow  rested  ;  faint  and  dim : 

At  first  I  thought  my  tears   the  phantom  made  ; 
Then  cried,  "  I  do  but  dream  it,  form  and  limb." 
In  horror  then  abroad   I   seemed  to  swim  : 

Then  my  great  agony  grew  calm  and  dumb  ; 

For  now  I  knew  indeed  my  destined  hour  was  come. 


212  A    TALE   OF   THE  MODERN  TIME. 

X. 

My  spirit's  Foe  was  now  the  spoil  to  claim 

My  heart's  chill  seemed  his  hand  upon  my  heart- 

O  marvel !  clearer  while  that  Shade  became, 
No  mocking  fiend,  I   saw,  no  lifted  dart ; 
But  a  dejected  Mourner  !  down,  apart, 

His  head  declined  :   one  hand  in  grief  he  pressed 

Upon  the  heaving  shadow  of  a  sorrowing  breast. 


XI. 


The  other  round  my  neck  was  thrown,  so  fair, 
So  kind,  so  gentle,  none  thereon  might  gaze, 

Nor  feel  that  Love  alone  had  placed  it  there  ! 
There  dropped  the  cloud  of  my  Self-haunted  days. 
He  who  for  years  had  tracked  my  wandering  ways 

Had  followed  me  in  love  !     O  Virgin-born, 

Thy  Shadow  was  the  light  of  my  eternal  morn  ! 


XII. 


Stranger  !  there  came  a  joy  to  me  that  hour ; 

Such  joy,   that  never  can  it  leave  my  soul. 
All  Heaven,  condensed  to  one  ambrosial  flower, 

Fell  on  my  bosom — Truth's  inviolate  whole  ! 

Obedience  was  the  Way  ;   Love  was  the  Goal : 
God,  the  true  Universe,  around  me  lay  : 
Systems  and  suns  thenceforth  were  motes  in  that  clear 
ray  ! 


A    TALE  OF  THE   MODERN    TIME.  21$ 

XIII. 

From  that  time  saw  I  what  'tis  Heaven  to  see, 
That  God  is  God  indeed,  and  good  to  Man  : 

Theist  then  first.     Who -Love's   Reality 

Hath  proved,  forgets  himself  to  probe  and  scan. 
Knowledge  for  him  remits  her  ancient  ban  : 

Back  fly  those  demons,  outwardly  to  sin 

That  lure  the  soul,  or  turn  our  inquest  sad  within  ! 


XIV. 


Then  looked  I  up  ;  and  drank  from  Heaven  that  light 
Which  makes  the  world  within,  and  world  around, 

Alone  intelligible,  pure,  and  bright : 

My  forehead  then,  but  not  by  me,  was  crowned  : 
Then  my  lost  youth,  no  longer  sought,  was  found  : 

My  penance  then  complete  ;  or  turned  to  pain 

So  sweet,  the  enamored  heart  embraced  it  like  a  gain. 


xv. 


My  kind,  new-vested  in  the  eternal  glory 
Of  God  made  Man,  glorious  to  me  became  : 

Thenceforth  those  crowns  that  shine  in  mortal  story 
I  deemed  it  grief  to  bear,   madness  to  claim. 
To  be  a  man  seemed  now  man's  loftiest  aim. 

True   Rule  seemed  this — to  wait  on  one  the  least 

Of  those  who  fight  God's  fight,  or  join  His  kingly  feast. 


214  A    TALE   OF  THE  MODERN  TIME. 

XVI. 

Then  the  Three  Virtues  bade  me  kneel  and  drink : 
Then  the  Twelve  Gifts  fell  from  the  heavenly  tree  : 

Then  from  the   Portals  Seven,  and  crystal  brink, 
Dread  Sacraments  and  sweet  came  down  to  me. 
Then  saw  I   plain  that   Saintly  Company, 

Through  whom,  as   Living   Laws,  that   world  which 
Sense 

Conceals,  is  ruled  of  God,  by  Prayer's  omnipotence. 

XVII. 

Thus  in  high  trance,  and  the  way  unitive, 

I  watched  one  year  :   which  sabbath  ended,  God 

Stirred  up  once  more  my  nest,  and  bade  me  live, 
Active  and  suffering.     So  again  I  trod 
The  temporal  storm,  and  wrestled  with  the  flood ; 

And  labored  long ;  and,  by  His  grace,  behold, 

Two  grains  I  brought,  or  three,  to  swell  the  hills  of 
gold. 

XVIII. 

Lastly,  my  faculties  of  body  and  mind 

Decayed,    through   God's   high  will   and  boundless 

love  ; 

And  from  the  trunk  whereon  they  grew  declined, 
As  leaves  from  trees,  or  plumes  from  moulting  dove. 
Thenceforth,   more  blest,   I    soared   no   more,   nor 

strove  ; 

But  sat  me  down,  and  wait  the  end,  as  waits, 
Sun-warmed,  a  beggar  by  great  palace  gates. 


A    TALE  OF  THE  MODERN1  TIME.  215 

XIX. 

Stranger  !  this  tale  of  one  man's  life  is  over : 
No  knowledge  mine  in  youth  have  I  unlearned; 

But  I   the  sense  was  gifted  to  discover 

Of  lore  possessed  long  since,  yet  undiscerned  : 
Truths  which,  as  abstract  or  remote,  I  spurned 

In  youth,  as  real  most  my  heart  now  prizes  ; 

And,  what  of  old  looked  real,  now  as  dream  despises  ; 


xx. 


Or  but  like  dreams  reveres.     Hollow  and  vain 
To  me  the  pageants  of  this  world  appear  ; 

Or  truth  but  symboled  to  the   truthful  brain  : 
The  future  world  I   find  already  here  ; 
The   unbeholden  palpable  and  dear  : 

Firm  as  a  staff  to  lean  on  ;  or  a  rod 

Of  power  miraculous,  and  sent  by  God. 


XXI. 


Stranger,  farewell !     Far  off  a  bell  is  tolling  : 
A  bridal  or  a  funeral  bell — whate'er 

It  chaunts,  in  harmony  the  tones  are  rolling. 
All  bells  alike  summon  mankind  to  prayer  ! 
Yea,  and  for  me  those  twain  one  day  shall  pair 

Their  blended  chimes  to  one.     When  I  am  dead, 

Stain  not  with  tears  my  grave — it  is  a  bridal  bed. 


216  SO.VG. 

XXII. 

He  ceased.     The  inmost  sense  of  that  I  heard 
I   know  not :  yet,  because  the  man  was  wise, 

His  legend  I  have  written  word  for  word. 
All  things  hold  meaning — to  unclouded  eyes 
Where  eagle  never  flew  are  auguries. 

It  may  be  then  this  weed  some  balm  doth  bear ; 

Some  cure  for  sight  long  dim — some  charm  against 
despair. 


SONG. 


THOUGH  oft  beguiled,  my  friend,  before, 

Still,  still  permit  me  to  beguile  ; 
Denounce  not  harshly,  but  deplore 

My  laugh,  and  it  may  end  a  smile  : 
To  children  more  akin  than  you 

We  women  are — we  give  them  birth — 
If  we  are  sometimes  childish  too, 

Be  men,  nor  war  with  childish  mirth  ! 


n. 


Once  on  my  head  your  hand  you  laid ; 

I  shook  it  thence ; — but  'twas  an  art 
To  hide  from  you  how  near  it  weighed 

On  that  which  shook  beneath — my  heart. 


SONNET.  217 

Go  not :   be  cold,  be  stern,  be  mute  ; 

Yet  stay  :  lest  I,  who  cannot  choose 
But  tremble  sometimes  at  thy  suit, 

At  last  should  tremble  to  refuse. 


SONNET. 

FLOWERS  I  would  bring  if  flowers  could  make  thee 

fairer, 

And  music,  if  the  Muse  were  dear  to  thee  ; 
(For  loving  these  would  make  thee  love  the  bearer.) 
But  sweetest  songs  forget  their  melody, 
And  loveliest  flowers  would  but  conceal  the  wearer  : — 
A  rose  I  marked,  and  might  have  plucked  ;  but  she 
Blushed  as  she  bent,  imploring  me  to  spare  her, 
Nor  spoil  her  beauty  by  such  rivalry. 
Alas  !  and  with  what  gifts  shall  I  pursue  thee, 
What  offerings  bring,  what  treasures  lay  before  thee  ; 
When  earth  with  all  her  floral  train  doth  woo  thee, 
And  all  old  poets  and  old  songs  adore  thee  ; 
And  Love  to  thee  is  nought — from  passionate  mood 
Secured  by  joy's  complacent  plenitude ! 


21 8  THE  FALL    OF  RORA. 

THE  FALL   OF  RORA. 
(FRAGMENT  OF  A  LYRICAL  DRAMA.) 

SCENE— Outside  Rora. 

Shepherds,  Villagers,  Arnold. 

ARNOLD. 

LET  all  the  women  hence,  and  with  the  children 
Hide  near  yon  chapel  of  old  pines.     The  Marquis 
Advances ; — 

See  that  all  depart  at  once. 
No  time  remains  for  wailings  or  farewells  : 
No,  Shepherds,  nor  for  wrath  :   the  hour  is  come  ! 

The  offering  which  we  offer  up  this  day 
In  steadfastness  of  spirit  we  must  offer, 
And  not  in  any  passion.  (To  Gianavello.) 

Place  our  men, 
As  I  have  said,  before  their  cottage  homes. 

GIANAVELLO. 

A  little  further  north — 

ARNOLD.     (In  a  whisper!) 

What,  know  you  not 
Th«  entrance  of  the  valley  now  is  lost  ? 
Would  you  deny  them  thei'r  high  privilege 
Of  dying  near  their  homes — almost  in  sight 


THE  FALL    OF  RORA.  21$ 

Of  those   that  loved   them,    parents,   brothers,    chil 
dren — 
Our  battle  times  are  o'er:  the  end  hath  come. 


THE  BROW  OF  THE  HILL  BEFORE  RORA. 

The  Marquis  of  Pianessa  and  troops. 

PIANESSA. 

I  thank  thee,  Heaven  !  henceforth  the  way  is  smooth 
No  rocks,  no  pine-stems  !     O  that  drop  by  drop  ! 
How  it  made  mad  the  thirst  with  which  I  burn  ! 
Henceforth  we  are  as  free  as  fire,  and  onward 
Rush,  swift  along  the  tempest  of  our  rage. 
Pause  here  awhile.     Give  me  a  cup  of  wine. 

OFFICER. 

Quick,  bring  some  wine. 

PIANESSA. 

See  you  that  village  yonder, 

With  sunshine  on  its  roofs  ?     It  smiles,  like  one 
Who  boasts  of  some  short-lived  impunity  ! 
Glittering  it  stands  among  its  orchards,  bowers, 
And  vines — look  down — 'tis  Rora  !  ay,  'tis  Rora  ! 

(Soldier  brings  wine.) 

Three  hundred  men,  my  best,  from  Burner's  hill 
Were  chased,  a  bloody  track  to  Villaro  ! 
Fill  up  the  cup — two  hundred  men  were  hurled 
From  Peyro's  summit  to  the  waves  beneath. 


220  THE   FALL    OF  RORA. 

Fill  up  the  cup — fill  high — four  hundred  men 
Down  Bosca's  chasms  were  dashed   from  rock   to 
rock — 

(Pauses — Officer  presents  the  wine.} 
I  will  not  drink  it  !     Wine  no  more,  nor  bread, 
Shall  pass  these  lips,  nor  sleep  assuage  my  breast, 
While  stands  in  yonder  village,  roof  or  wall. — 
See  you  those  rebels  where  they  crowd  ?     Look  on 

them  ! 

Give  me  the  cup — this  wine  shall  be  their  blood. 
Thus,  thus,  I  pour  it  forth  upon  the  ground  ! 

(Pours  the  wine  on  the  earth.} 
Ha,  tha,  ye  thought  not  I  could  wait  so  long  ! 
Say,  are  the  horses  breathed  ? 

OFFICER. 

All  fresh. 

PIANESSA. 

Then  on  ! 

Caverned  rocks  in  the  mountains  above  Rora. — Chorus 
of  Virgins  and  Wives — Old  Men,  Children. 

A    GIRL. 

It  thunders  ! 

AN    OLD   MAN. 

No,  it  is  their  meeting. 

A  WOMAN. 

Ah! 

Thus  far,  beyond  the  sight  of  this  dread  battle 
To  wait  the  issue  in  suspense,  and  hear 


THE  FALL    OF  RORA.  221 

No  sound,  but  those  fierce  shouts,  and  our  hearts' 

beating ! 

Hurl'  down,  O  wind,  yon  rocks  !   their  jagged  pines 
Leave  half  the  vale  exposed,  yet  hide  the  battle. 

SECOND   WOMAN. 

A  tenfold  shout — now,  now  they  meet.     O  heaven ! 

CHORUS. 

Clouds  above  the  dark  vale  streaming  ! 

Onward  rushing,  swift  and  free  ! 
Oh  !  that,  as  a  mirror  gleaming, 

You  might  shew  us  all  you  see  ! 
Glittering  heralds  you  should  be 
Of  a  sun-bright  victory  ! 

FIRST   SEMI-CHORUS. 

Now  the  battle  hosts  are  meeting — 

Tangled  now  in  mazy  error  ; 
Like  whirlpools  down  a  river  fleeting — 

I  am  blind  with  doubt  and  terror. 
Better  death,  than  doubt.  O  cease  ! 
Be  still,  my  heart,  or  burst.  Peace,  peace  ! 

SECOND    SEMI-CHORUS. 

Darkness  and  storm  before  him  driven, 
Ascending  ever  high  and  higher, 

Yon  Eagle  cleaves  the  clouded  heaven — 
Lo  !   now  sun-smitten,  like  a  pyre 

He  burns  !  auspicious  omen  !  we 

Behold  our  Fate  and  Fame  in  thee  ! 


222  THE  FALL    OF  RORA. 

FIRST   GIRL. 

Have  we  judged  well  ? 

SECOND   GIRL. 

To  give  up  all  at  once  ! 
The  thought  is  glorious — 

WOMEN. 

But  the  act !  woe,  woe  ! 

FIRST   SEMI-CHORUS. 

I  heard  a  voice  :   the  clouds  were  fled ; 

All  heaven  hung  vast  and  pure  o'er  head  ; 

The  mountain  rock,  and  mountain  sod, 

Lay  steadfast,  as  the  Word  of  God  ! 

I  heard  a  voice  :  it  spake  to  me, 

Far  murmuring,  "  One  hath  died  for  thee, 

That  thou  shouldst  live  both  just  and  free." 

SECOND   SEMI-CHORUS. 

"  For  how,"  that  deep  voice  murmured — "  how 
Shall  man  to  God  his  forehead  bow, 
Unless  he  first  that  sign  august 
Lift  up — God's  Image — from  the  dust  ? 
Or  how  expand  a  chain-worn  breast 
For  Christ  therein,  an  equal  guest, 
To  find  his  temple  and  his  rest?" 


THE   FALL    OF  RORA.  223 

FIRST   WOMAN. 

Alas!  and  see  you  those  poor  children  straying 
Still  on,  by  cavern,  brake,  and  rifted  pine  ? 
They  seek,  but  hope  no  more  to  find  the  maid. 

(Children  pass  through  the  caverns  singing.} 


We  have  sought  her  in  her  bower ; 

In  the  garden  we  have  sought  her  : 
In  the  forest,  hour  by  hour, 

We  have  sought  the  chieftain's  daughter. 
She  that  was  to  us  so  tender, 

Answer  now  she  gives  us  none  : 
She  is  gone  we  know  not  whither. 

If  we  knew  where  she  is  gone, 
We  would  gather  flowers,  and  send  her 
Those  she  loved,  the  last  to  wither. 
Agnes  !  our  beloved  !   come, 
To  thy  children  and  thy  home  ! 


II. 


She  was  not  like  others,  gay — 

But  the  mirthful  loved  her  sadness  : 
And  the  mourner  oft  would  say, 

None  could  yield  so  soft  a  gladness. 
As  a  star,  remote  and  lonely, 

Piercing  depths  of  midnight  woods, 

Makes  the  dark  leaves  dance  in  lightness  ; 

So  into  dejected  moods, 


2~4  THE   FALL    OF  RORA. 


She,  that  mournful  lady  only, 

Shone  with  beams  of  heavenly  brightness. 
Agnes,  O  beloved  !  come 
To  thy  children  and  thy  home  ! 


in. 

O  beloved  Agnes  !  where, 

Where  art  thou  so  long  delaying  ? 
O'er  what  mountains  bleak  and  bare 

Are  thy  tender  feet  a-straying  ? 
They  have  told  us  thou  art  taken 

To  some  palace  white  like  snow  ; 

And  some  think  that  thou  art  sleeping 

This  we  know  not ;  but  we  know, 
Every  morning  when  we  waken, 

All  our  lids  are  wet  with  weeping. 
O  beloved  Agnes  !  come 
To  thy  children  and  thy  home  ! 


CHORUS. 

Hark,  hark  the  Storm  !  the  voice  not  long 
Outstrips  the  Presence :   see  you  now, 
Not  leaves  alone,  but  branch  and  bough  ! 
They  roof  the  glen,  a  rushing  throng, 
Fast  borne  in  current  fierce  and  strong  ! 
The  cliffs  that  wall  the  vale  are  shaking : 
The  forests  to  their  heart  are  quaking  ! 
Crouch  in  caves  who  will :    but  I 
Exulting  pace  this  platform  high  ! 


THE  FALL  OF  RORA.  225 

My  panting  soul,  with  joy  o'er-awed, 
I  cast  upon  the   Storm  abroad  : 
And  soon  will  hurl,  inspired  by  Wrong, 
Thereon  my  vengeance  and  my  song  ! 

WOMEN. 

Is  it  the  gasping  of  the  Storm 

That  makes  her  wan  cheek  red  and  warm  ? 

Lo  !    how  she  fixes  now  her  eyes — 

CHORUS. 

Catching  the   quickening  impulse   from   those 

kindling  skies  ! 

See,  see  the   Storm  grows  radiant  now, 
As  radiant  as  a  lifted  brow 
Too  long  abased  !   lo,  fast  and  wide, 
Avenging  Forms  the  tempest  ride  ; 
And  answer,  round,  above,  and  under, 
With  choruses  of  rapturous  thunder  ! 
Burst  on  the  tyrant,  Storm  from  God ! 
Hurl  them  like  leaves  from  rock  to  rock ! 
Trample  them  down  through   clay  and  sod  : 
From  dark  to  dark  ! — their  banners  mock 
The  purple  and  the  blood-stained  gold 
Thy  clouds  have  vengefully  unrolled — 

WOMEN. 

She  lifts  her  hands,  and  far  away 
Flings  forth  the  ban  ! 


226  THE  FALL  OF  RORA. 

CHORUS. 

For  Tyrants  say 

That  men  were  shaped  but  to  obey : 
Dead  spokes  alone,  to  roll  and  reel, 
Within  their  car's  revolving  wheel ! 
Let  them  take  heed,  for  they  have  driven 
In  frenzy  o'er  the  rocky  plain, 
Till  earth's  deep  groans  are  heard  in  heaven, 
And  fire  bursts  from  those  wheels  amain — 
Not  soon  the  stormy  flames  expire 
When  hearts  contagious  in  their  ire 
Burst  forth,  like  forests  catching  fire  ! 

n. 

Or  else  this  madness  preys  upon  their  spirit — 
That  all  good  things  to  man's  estate  which  fall 
Come  from  their  sacred  prescience — they  inherit 
Wisdom  divine  to  nurse  this  mundane  ball  ! 
Yea,  they  apportion  times  ;  with  care  dispensing 
The  seasons  ;  when  to  sow,  what  days  for  reaping, 
What  space  for  food  and  labor,  praying,  sleeping  ; 
With  stellar  beams  our  harvests  influencing ; 
Forth  of  the  heaven  of  high  conceit  diffusing 
Sunshine  and  breeze  amid  our  murmuring  grain  ; 
Showering  the  former  and  the  latter  rain — 
Or  else  with  groans  their  vacant  hours  amusing, 
And  sending  forth  a  famine,  to  fulfil 
On  men  of  froward  heart  the  counsels  of  their  will  ! 
Such  airy  dream  to  realize, 
All  rights,  all  instincts  they  despise  ; 
On  every  hearth  they  plant  a  foot, 


THE   FALL.  OF  RORA.  22f 

Importunate,  impure,  and  brute  : 
Round  every  bed  a  serpent  creeps  : 
They  make  along  the  venomed  wall 
The  hundred-footed  Whisper  crawl — 
But  Vengeance  in  a  moment  leaps 
Forth   from   the   frowning    caverns   of   her  noontide 
sleeps  ! 

FIRST   WOMAN. 

How  her  high  passion  teems  with  thoughts  as  high ; 
Like  fire  from  the  Earth's  heart  quickening  the  seeds 
In  some  volcanic  soul  to  stateliest  growth  ! 
Flushed  is  her  cheek  with  crimson  as  she  cow'rs 
Beneath  their  umbrage  ! 


CHORUS. 

Ha  !  how  well 

That  Chief  made  answer.     At  the  door 
The  herald  stood,  and  shook  all  o'er  ; 
And  spake  :  "  These   tumults  thou  shalt  quell ; 
Or  else,  a  deep  oath  I  have  sworn, 
Thy  wife,  the  children  of  thy  joy, 
With  fire  in  vengeance  to  destroy." 
Then  made  he  answer,  without  scorn  : 
"  Their  flesh  thou  mayest  consume  ;  Time  must : 
But  I   commend  their  spirits 
To  God,  in  whom  we  trust." 

WOMEN. 

See,  see  that  man  !  he's  hurt— how  goes  the  battle  ? 


225  THE  FALL    OF  RORA. 

MESSENGER. 

Thrice  have  they  rushed  upon  us  :  thrice  fled  back 
They  form  for  the  last  onset.     Arnold  sent  me — 
He  prays  you  to  remove. 

WOMEN. 

We  will  not  stir  ! 
Why  should  we  move  ? 

MESSENGER. 

The  fight  is  worse  than  doubtful 
Fresh  troops  are  pouring  on  us — Christoval — 
Mario — the  rest — have  burst  into  the  valley 
From  every  entrance.     We  are  girt — surrounded — 

CHORUS. 
Fight  to  the  death  !     The  Chieftain  :  lives  he  yet  ? 

MESSENGER. 

He  lives. 

CHORUS. 
And  Gianavello  ? 

MESSENGER. 

He  is  well. 

WOMEN. 

Ah  !  tell  us,  tell  us — no,  no,  tell  us  not — 
Tell  us  not  who  hath  fallen. 


THE  FALL   OF  RORA.  229 

MESSENGER. 

Alas  !  alas  ! 

WOMEN. 

Speak  not  !  speak  not !  we  will  bind  up  thy  wounds  ; — 
Thou  art  too  faint ! 

MESSENGER. 

Alas,  poor  Marguerita  ! 
When  all  departed,  she  would  not  depart — 

WOMEN. 

Ah — what  of  her  ? 

MESSENGER. 

A  bullet  pierced  her  heart : 
Staggering  into  her  husband's  arms  she  fell, 
Crying  aloud,  "  'Tis  nothing,  lovq,  'tis  nothing  : 
It  is  God's  will:   fight  thou  unto  the  last;" 
And  so  expired. 

WOMEN. 

Take,  take  that  maid  away — 
See,  she  has  fallen  upon  the  rock  in  swoon. 

CHORUS. 

Smooth  song  no  more  ;  an  idle  chime  ! 

'Tis  ours,  'tis  ours,  ere  yet  we  die, 
To  hurl  into  the  tide  of  Time 

The  bitter  Book  of  Prophecy. 


230  THE  FALL    OF  RORA. 

For  ages  we  have  fought  this  fight  ; 

For  ages  we  have  borne  this  wrong. 

How  long,   Holy  and  Just  !   how  long, 
Shall  lawless  might  oppress  the  right  ? 

No  dreamy  influence  numbs  my  song  ! 
Too  long  suspended  it  has  hung 
Like  glaciers  bending  in  their  trance 
From  cliffs,  some  horned  valley's  wall — 
One  flash,  from  God  one  ireful  glance, 
To  vengeful  plagues  hath  changed  them  all  : — 
Down,  headlong  torrents  ('tis   your  hour 
Of  triumph)  on  the  Invading  Power  ! 

Woe,  woe  to  Tyrants  !  Who  are  they  ? 

Whence  come  they  ?  Whither  are  they  sent  ? 

Who  gave  them  first  their  baleful  sway 
O'er  ocean,  isle,   and  continent  ? 

Wild  beasts  they  are,  ravening  for  aye  ; 

Vultures  that  make  the  world  their  prey  ; 

Pests,  ambushed  in  the  noontide  day  ; 

111  stars  of  ruin  and  dismay  ! 
Tempestuous  winds  that  plague  the  ocean  : 
Hoar  waves  along  some  rock-strewn  shore 
That  rush  and  race,  with  dire   commotion 
Raking  those  rocks  in  blind  uproar  ! 

FIRST    WOMAN. 

She  sings  aright :   this  music  of  her  anger 

Makes  my  blood  leap  like  founts  from  the  warm  earth : 

My  chill  is  past. 


THE  FALL    OF  RORA.  ?3l 

SECOND   WOMAN. 

'Tis  well.     We  shall  die  free  ! 

CHORUS. 

As  though  this  Freedom  they  demand  of  us 
Were  ours,  at  will  to  keep  or  to  bestow  ! 
To  them  a  boon  profane,  a  gift  of  woe  ; 
For  us  a  loss  fatal  and  blasphemous  ! 
This  Freedom — man's  dread  Birthright  of  the  Soul — 
It  is  not  man's,  nor  under  man's  control : 
From  God  it  comes  ;  His  prophet  here,  and  martyr  ; 
Which  when  He  gives  to  man,  man's  sword  must 

guard : 
No  toy  for  sport ;  no  merchandise  for  barter ; 

A  duty,  not  a  boast ;  the  Spirit's  awful  ward  ! — 
Dread,  sullen  stillness,  what  art  thou  portending  ? 
Once  more  each  word  I   mutter  on  mine  ear 
(Forward  in  anguish  bending) 

Drops  resonant  and  clear — 
The  forest  wrecks,  each  branch  and*  bough, 
O'er  voiceless  caves  lie  tranquil  now  : 
No  sound,  except  the  wind's  far  wail, 
Forth  issuing  through  the  portals  of  the  vale, 

Now  low,  now  louder  and  more  loud, 
Under  the  bridge-like  archway  of  yon  low-hung  cloud  ! 

FIRST   WOMAN. 

O  God,  what  light  is  that  ?  See,  see,  it  spreads  ! 
The  vale  is  all  one  flame— the  clouds  catch  fire — 
Our  hearths,  our  homes  !  all  lost — gone,  gone,  for 


232  THE   FALL    OF  RORA. 

SECOND    WOMAN. 

It  wakes  another  tempest  !     From  the  gorges 
And  deep  glens  on  all  sides  the  winds  come  rushing, 
And  mate  themselves  unto  that  terrible  flame, 
As  we  shake  hands  fiercely  with  our  despair  ! 
Lo,  once  again  that  sound  !  that  flame,  behold  it ! 
Once  more  it  leaps  off  from  its  burning  altar 
Up,  up,  to  heaven — 

CHORUS. 

To  be  our  witness  there  ! 

MESSENGER. 

Arnold  is  dead  !   He  felt  the  wound  was  mortal. 
Then  stood  he  up   from  slaying  of  his  foes, 
And  smiled,  and  gave  this  staff  to  me,  and  said  : 
"If  there   be  yet  one  free  spot  left  on  Earth, 
Let  them  plant  there  this   staff — 
And  there,  not  on  my  grave,  remember  me  !" 

CHORUS. 

Is  Arnold  dead  ? 

MESSENGER. 

Arnold  is  dead  :  and  with  him 
The  freedom  of  the  mountain-land  is  dead. 
I  too  am  dying  ;  take  ye  then  this  staff; 
And  if  there  be  one  free  spot  left  on  Earth, 
Plant  it  upon  that  spot :    and  be  ye  sure 
Forth  from  this  root  shall  grow  the  goodliest  tree 
That  ever  spread  a  green  dome  under  heaven. 

(Dies.) 


THE  FALL    OF  RORA.  233 

FIRST   SEMI-CHORUS. 

Boast  not,  haughty  conqueror  ! 

Not  from  thee  hath  fallen  this  woe  : 
He,  the  Lord  of  Peace  and  War, 

He  alone  hath  laid  us  low. 
Boast  not,  haughty  conqueror  ! 

Slay,  but  boast  not — Woe  !  Woe  !  Woe  ! 

SECOND    SEMI-CHORUS. 

From  Heaven  the  curse  was  shaken, 

On  this  predestined  head  : 
From  thy  hand  the  plague  was  taken  ; 

By  a  mightier  vengeance  sped. 
Mine  is  the  sorrow, 

Mine,  and  for  ever  ; 
Who  can  turn  back  again 

A  mighty  archer's  arrow  ? 
Who  can  assuage  my  pain  ? 
Who  can  make  calm  my  brain  ? 

Who  can  deliver  ? 

CHORUS. 
i. 

But  within  me  thoughts  are  rising, 
Severer  thoughts,  and  soul-sufficing : 
Swift,  like  clouds  in  exhalation, 

Come  they  rushing  :  whilst  a  glory 
Falls  on  locks  this  fiery   Passion 

Turns  from  black  to  hoary  ! 


234  THE   FALL    OF  RORA. 

Voices  round  me  borne  in  clangor 
Sound  the  trump  of  things  to  be  : 

And  heavenly  flashes  of  wise  anger 
Give  my  spirit  light  to  see 
The  great  Future  ;  and  aright 
Judge  this  judgment  of  to-night. 


n. 


I  trembled  when  the  strife  began — 
Praying,  my  clasped  hands  trembled, 
With  ill-timed  weakness  ill  dissembled 
But  now  beyond  the  strength  of  man, 
My  strength  has  in  a  moment  grown  ; 
And  I  no  more  my  griefs  deplore 

Than  doth  a  shape  of  stone — 
A  marble  Shape,  storm-filled,  and  fair 
With  might  resurgent  from  despair, 
I  walk  triumphant  o'er  my  woe : 
For  well  I  feel  and  well  I  know, 
That  God  with  me  this  wrong  sustains, 
And,  in  me  swelling,  bursts  my  chains  ! 


in. 


And  dost  thou  make  thy  boast  then  of  their 

lying 

All  cold,  upon  the  mountain  and  the  plain, 
My  Sons  whom  thou  hast  slain  ? 
And  that  nor  tears  nor  sighing 
Can  raise  their  heads  again  ? 


THE    FALL   OF  RORA.  23  j 

My  Sons,  not  vainly  have  ye  died, 
For  ye  your  Country  glorified  ! 
Each  moment  as  in  death  ye  bowed, 
On  high  your  martyred  Souls  ascended  ; 
Yea,  soaring  in  perpetual  cloud, 
This  earth  with  heaven  ye  blended — 
A  living  chain  in  death  ye  wove  ; 
And  rising,  raised  our  world  more  near  those  worlds 
above ! 

IV. 

They  perish  idly  ?  they  in  vain  ? 
When  not  a  sparrow  to  the  plain 
Drops  uncared  for !     Tyrant  !  they 
Are  radiant  with  eternal  day  ! 
And  oft,  unseen,  on  us  they  turn 
Those  looks  that  make  us  inly  burn, 
And  swifter  through  our  pulses  flow 
The  bounding  blood,  their  blood  below! 
How  little  cause  have  those  for  fear 
Whose  outward  forms  alone  are  here  ! 
How  nigh  are  they  to  Heaven,  who  there 
Have  stored  their  earliest,  tenderest  care! 
Whate'er  was  ours  of  erring  pride, 
This  agony  hath  sanctified. 
Our  destined  flower  thy  blasts  but  tear 
Its  sacred  seed  o'er  earth  to  bear  ! 
O'er  us  the  storm  hath  passed,  and  we 
Are  standing  here  immovably 
Upon  the  platform  of  the  Right ; 
And  we  are  inwardly  as  bright 


236  THE  FALL   OF  RORA. 

As  those  last  drops  which  hang  like  fire 
Close-clustered  on  the  piny  spire, 
When  setting  suns  their  glories  pour 
On  yellow  vales  perturbed  no  more  ; 
While  downward  from  the  eagle's  wing 
One  feather  falls  in  tremulous  ring, 
And  far  away  the  wearied  storms  retire. 


I  heard,  prophetic  in  my  dreams, 
The  roaring  of  tumultuous  streams, 
While  downward,  from  their  sources  torn, 
Came  pines  and  rocks  in  ruin  borne  : 
Then  spake  that  Storm  to  me  and  said, 
"  Quake  thou  with  awe,  but  not  with  dread 
For  these  are  Thrones  and  Empires  rolled 
Down  Time's  broad  torrents,  as  of  old. 
But  thou  those  flowers  remember  well, 
By  foaming  floods  in  peace  that  dwell ; 
For  thus  'mid  wrecks  of  fear  and  strife, 
Rise  up  the  joys  of  hourly  life  ; 
And  all  pure  bonds  and  charities 
Exhale  their  sweetness  to  the  skies — 
But  woe  to  haughtier  spirits  !     They, 
At  God's  command,  are  swept  away, 
Into  the  gulfs  that  know  not  day." 


VI. 

And  now  my  Song  is  sung.     I  go 
Far  up  to  fields  of  endless  snow. 


THE  FALL    OF  RORA. 

Alone  till  death  I  walk  :   unsoiled 

By  air  the  tyrants  have  defiled. 

Over  a  cheek  no  longer  pale 

I  drop  henceforth  a  funeral  veil, 

And  only  dimmed  and  darkened  see 

The  mountains   I  have  looked  on  free. 

Ye  that  below  abide,  unblest, 

Paint  now  no  more  with  flowers  yon  dells 

Nor  speak  in  tone  like  that  which  swells, 

Loud-echoed  from  the  freeman's  breast : 

In  sable  garments  walk,  and  spread 

With  cerements  black  your  buried  dead. 

Farewell  to  all :   I  go  alone  ; 

And  dedicate  henceforth  my  days 

To  muse  on  God's  high  Will,  and  raise 

My  hands  toward  th'  eternal  Throne — 

And  I  beneath  the  stars  will  thread 

The  dark  beads  of  my  rosaries  ; 

And  ofttimes  earthward  bow  my  head, 

And  listen  ofttimes  for  the  tread 

Of  some  far  herald,  swiftly  sent, 

To  crown  with  light  a  shape  time-bent, 

And  dry  a  childless   widow's  eyes 

With  tidings  grave  of  high  content, 

Wherein  unheeded  prophecies 

Shall  find  their  great  accomplishment ! 


SONNETS. 


"LE  RECIT  D'UNE  SCEUR." 


WHENCE  is  the  music  ?  minstrel  see  we  none  ; 
Yet  soft  as  waves  that — surge  succeeding  surge — 
Roll  forward — now  subside — anon  emerge — 
Upheaved  in  glory  o'er  a  setting  sun, 
Those  beatific  harmonies  sweep  on  ! 
O'er  earth  they  sweep  from  Heaven's  remotest  verge, 
Triumphant  Hymeneal,  Hymn,  and  Dirge 
Blending  in  everlasting  unison. 

Whence  is  the  music  ?    Stranger  !    these  were  they 
That,  great  in  love,  by  Love  unvanquished  proved : 
These  were  true  lovers,  for  in  God  they  loved : 
With  God,  these  Spirits  rest  in  endless  day, 
Yet  still  for  Love's  behoof,  on  wings  outspread 
Float  on  o'er  earth,  betwixt  the  Angels  and  the  Dead  ! 


240  SONNE  TS. 

II. 

ALEXANDRINE. 

Between  two  graves,  a  sister's  grave  and  one 

Wherein  the  husband  of  her  youth  was  laid, 

In  countenance  half  a  Spirit,  half  a  Nun, 

She  stood  :  a  breeze  that  branch  of  jasmine  swayed 

In  her  slight  hand  upholden  :  "  Peace  !"  she  said  : 

A  smile  all  gold  to  meet  the  sinking  sun 

Came  forth  :  the  pale,  worn  face  transfigured  shone 

Sun-like  beneath  the  sorrowing  widow-braid. 

She  raised  that  branch  away  her  tears  to  wipe — 

"  How  happy  seemed  our  life  twelve  years  ago  ! 

I  weep  him  still,  but  gaily  weep  at  last  ! 

Like  some  sweet  day-dream  looks  that  earthly  past  : 

Of  genuine  joy  the  pledge  it  was,  the  type  : — 

Now,  now  alone  the  joy  itself  I  know  ! " 

in. 

A    HAPPY    DEATH. 

"  How  many  a  dear  unwedded  maid  there  is 
Who — childhood's  rapture  over — thus  might  pray  : 
'God,  God  alone,  can  be  our  endless  bliss, 
Yet  human  love  might  have  its  little  May ! 
The  troth,  the  trust,  the  ring,  the  bridal  kiss — 
Had  this  been  mine,  I  would  not  bid  it  stay ! 
Had  this  been  mine,  a  year,  a  month,  a  day, 
Had  this  been  mine,  and  I  been  worthy  this  ! 
In  spotless  Love,  blessing,  to  have  been  blest ; 
To  have  felt  Earth's  Love  pierced  through  by  Love 
divine  ; 


SONNETS.  241 

Rest  to  have  known  in  Love,  and  Love  in  Rest : 
Then  the  brief  feast,  contented,  to  resign  ; 
To  leave  loved  pledges  with  the  loved — and  die  ! ' 
— Sister,    my  dream    was    such  ;    and   lo,    my   wish 
have  I." 


NATIONAL  APOSTACY. 

TRAMPLING  a  dark  hill,  a  red  sun  athwart, 
I  saw  a  host  that  rent  their  clothes  •  and  hair, 
And  dashed  their  spread  hands  'gainst  that  sunset 

glare, 

And  cried,  "  Go  from  us,  God,  since  God  thou  art ! 
Utterly  from  our  coasts  and  towns  depart, 
Court,  camp,  and   senate-hall,  and  mountain  bare  : 
Our  pomp  Thou  troublest,  and  our  feast  dost  scare, 
And  with  Thy  temples  dost  confuse  our  mart ! 
Depart  Thou  from  our  hearing  and  our  seeing  : 
Depart  Thou  from  the  works  and  ways  of  men  ; 
Their   laws,    their    thoughts,    the    inmost    of   their 

being : 
Black  Nightmare,  hence  !    that  earth   may  breathe 

again." 

"Can  God  depart?"  I  said.     Then  one  replied, 
Close  by — " Not  so :  each  Sin  at  heart  is  Deicide" 


242  SONNETS. 


WINTER   IN   THE   WOODS. 

WHEN  first  the  Spring  her  glimmering  chaplets  wove 
This  way  and  that  way  'mid  the  boughs  high  hung, 
We  watched  the  hourly  work,  while  thrushes  sung 
A  song  that  shook  with  joy  their  bowered  alcove : 
Summer  ere  long  o'er-arched  with  green  the  grove, 
And  deepening  shades  to  flower-sweet  alleys  clung: 
And  last — one  dirge  from  many  a  golden  tongue — 
The  chiding  leaves  with  chiding  Autumn  strove. 
These  were  but  Nature's  preludes.     Last  is  first ! 
Winter,  uplifting  high  both  flail  and  fan, 
With  the  great  forests  dealt  as  Death  with  man  ; 
And  therefore  through  their  desolate  roofs  hath  burst 
This  splendor  veiled  no  more  by  earthly  bars — 
Infinite  heaven,  and  the  fire-breathing  stars  ! 


ST.  CUTHBERT. 

WHAT  Power  from  Lindisfarne,  the  Holy  Isle, 
Drave  Cuthbert  to  an  islet  yet  more  lone  ? 
What  bound  the  Anchoret  to  a  cell  of  stone 
By  rough  seas  girt,  and  kept  him  glad  the  while  ? 
Monks  fly  the  world  :  he  fled  the  Convent  pile, 
The  anthemed  rites  of  matins,  prime,  and  none  : — 
What  light  was  that  which  from  his  spirit  shone 
And  lit  grey  rocks  with  never-waning  smile  ? 
Love,    mighty    Love  !      Nor    bridegroom   yet,   nor 
bride 


SONNE  TS.  243 

In  converse  tranced,  or  linked,  remote,  in  thought, 
Has  known  his  rapture  !     Loving,  yet  with  awe 
Thy  Face,  Eternal  Love,  for  aye  he  saw  : 
Therefore  of  that  wild  cave  he  wearied  not : 
And  in  great  peace  his  soul  was  satisfied. 


MONASTICISM. 

THE  Spirit  hath  its  Passion  as  the  Sense  : 
A  spiritual  ear  there  is,  a  spiritual  eye, 
A  spiritual  heart  whose  "fires  of  light"  supply 
To  the  earthly  heart  Love's  true  Intelligence : 
And,  answering  these,  beyond  thy  narrow  fence, 
O  Nature,  spreads,  remotest  yet  most  nigh, 
That  spiritual  Universe  of  Deity 
Wherein  alone  Creation  lives,  and  whence. 
Behold  the  things  that  are  !    'Tis  we,  alas, 
That  shadow-charmed,  and  drowned  in  things  that 

seem, 

Live  without  life,  and  die  without  a  sign : 
Alone  the  life  monastic  spurns  the  dream, 
Crying  to  all  the  ages  as  they  pass 
"  The  strongest  of  Man's  loves  is  love  Divine." 


244  SONNETS. 


POLAND    AND    RUSSIA. 


WHEN,  fixed  in  righteous  wrath,  a  Nation's  eye 
Torments  some  crowned  Tormentor  with  just  hate, 
Nor  threat,  nor  flattery  may  that  gaze  abate  : 
Unshriven  the  unatoning  years  go  by : 
For,  as  that  starry  Archer  in  the  sky 
Unbends  not  his  bright  bow,  though  early  and  late 
The  Syren  sings,  and  folly  weds  with  fate, 
Even  so  that  constellated  Destiny 
Which  keeps  fire-vigil  in  a  night-black  heaven 
Upon  the  countenance  of  the  doomed  looks  forth 
Consentient  with  a  Nation's  gaze  on  earth  : — 
To  the  twinned  Powers  a  single  gaze  is  given : 
The  earthly  Fate  reveals  the  Fate  on  high — 
A   Brazen    Serpent   raised,  that  says  not,    "live," 
but  «  die  ! " 

II. 

The    Strong   One    with    the   Weak    One    reasons 

thus  :— 

"  Through  sin  of  thine  our  eagle  wings  are  dipt : 
Through  frost  of  thine  our  summer  branch  is  nipt : 
Thy  wounds  accuse:  thy  rags  are  mutinous  : 
The  nations  note  thine  aspect  dolorous 
As    some   starved    shape   that  cowers    in  charnel 

crypt, 

Or  landscape  in  eclipse  perpetual  dipt, 
And,  ignorant,  cavil,  not  at  thee  but  us  ! " 


SONNETS.  245 

Then  answer  makes   that  worn   voice,    stern   and 

slow  : — 

"Am  I  a  dog  the  scourger's  hand  that  licks, 
And  fattens  ?     Blind  reproof  but  spurns  the  pricks. 
That  which  I  am  thou  mad'st  me  !  long  ago 
My  face  thou  grav'dst  to  be  a  face  of  woe, 
Fixed  as  the  fixed  face  of  a  Crucifix." 


GALATEA  AND  URANIA;  OR,  ART  AND  FAITH. 

"  DREAD  Venerable  Goddess,  whom  I  fear, 
Gaze  not  upon  me  from  thy  starry  height  ! 
I  fear  thy  levelled  shafts  of  ruthless  light, 
Thine  unfamiliar  radiance  and  severe  : 
Thy  sceptre  bends  not !  stern,  defined,  and  cleai- 
Thy  Laws  :    thy  face  intolerantly  bright : 
Thine  is  the  empire  of  the  Ruled  and  Right : 
Never  hadst  thou  a  part  in  smile  or  tear  ! — 
I  love  the  curving  of  xthe  wind-arched  billow ; 
The  dying  flute  tone,  sweeter  for  its  dying  : 
To  me  less  dear  the  Pine  tree  than  the  Willow, 
The  mountain  than  the  shadows  o'er  it  flying—  ' 
Thus  Galatea  sang,  (whilst  o'er  the  waters 
Urania    leant :)   and   cowered   'mid    Ocean's   foam- 
white  daughters  ! 


246  SONNETS. 


DEATH. 

GOD'S  creature,  Death  !  thou  art  not  God's  compeer ! 

An  Anarch  sceptred  in  primordial  night ; 

Immortal  Life's  eternal  opposite  : — 

Nor  art  thou  some  new  Portent  sudden  and  drear 

Blotting,  like  sea-born  cloud,  a  noontide  sphere  : 

Thou  art  but  Adam's  forfeit  by  the  might 

Of  Calvary  sunset-steeped,  and  changed  to  light  ; 

To  God  man's  access  through  the  gates  of  Fear  ! 

Penance  thou  art  for  them  that  penance  need; 

To  souls  detached  a  gentle  ritual ; 

Time's  game  reiterate  and  with  lightning  speed 

Played  o'er ;   through  life  a  desert  Baptist's  call. 

Judgment  and  Death  are  woeful  things,  we  know : 

Yet  Judgment  without  Death  were  tenfold  woe ! 


KIRKSTALL     ABBEY. 

ROLL  on  by  tower  and  arch,  Autumnal  River; 
And  ere  about  thy  dusk  yet  gleaming  tide 
The  phantom  of  dead  Day  hath  ceased  to  glide, 
Whisper  it  to  the  reeds  that  round  thee  quiver : — 
Yea,  whisper  to  those  ivy  bowers  that  shiver 
Hard  by  on  gusty  choir  and  cloister  wide, 
"  My  bubbles  break  :  my  weed-flowers  seaward  slide  : 
My  freshness  and  my  mission  last  for  ever  ! " 


SONJVETS.  247 

Young    Moon    from    leaden    tomb    of   cloud    that 

soarest, 

And   whitenest   those   hoar   elm-trees,  wrecks    for 
lorn 

Of  olden  Airedale's  hermit-haunted  forest, 
Speak  thus,  "I  died;  and  lo,  I  am  reborn!" 
Blind,  patient  Pile,  sleep  on  in  radiance  !     Truth 
Dies  not :   and  Faith,  that  died,  shall  rise  in  end 
less  youth. 


UNSPIRITUAL     CIVILIZATION. 

WE  have  been  piping,  Lord ;  we  have  been  singing ! 
Five  hundred  years  have  passed  o'er  lawn  and  lea 
Marked  by  the  blowing  bud  and  falling  tree, 
While  all  the  ways  with  melody  were  ringing  : 
In  tented  lists,  high-stationed  and  flower- flinging 
Beauty  looked  down  on  conquering  chivalry ; 
Science  made  wise  the  nations  ;  Laws  made  free  ; 
Art,  like  an  angel  ever  onward  winging, 
Brightened   the  world.      But  O  great  Lord  and   Fa 
ther  ! 

Have  these,  thy  bounties,  drawn  to  thee  Man's  race 
That  stood  so  far  aloof  ?     Have  they  not  rather 
His  soul  subjected  ?  with  a  blind  embrace 
Gulfed    it    in    sense  ?     Prime    blessings    changed   to 

curse 
'Twixt  God  and  man  can  set  God's  universe. 


248  SONNETS. 


ON   A   RECENT   VOLUME   OF   POEMS.* 

HID  in  each  cord  there  winds  one  central  strand  : 

Hid  in  each  breast  a  panting  heart  doth  lie  : 

Hid  in  the  lines  that  map  the  infant's  hand 

There  lurks,  men  say,  a  life-long  destiny : 

Through  the  dropt  leaf  'gainst  wintry  sunset  scanned 

Shines  that  fine  net  whose  strong  geometry 

Sustained  the  nascent  shape,  and  each  new  dye 

Fed  by  Spring  dews,  by  pensive  Autumn  fanned. 

Hid  in  this  Book  what  note  we  ?     One  Decree 

Writ  by  God's  finger  on  a  destined  soul, 

That  stamped  each  thought  an  act,  and  leaving  free 

The  spirit,  shaped  the  life  into  a  whole. 

What  was  that  great  behest — that  mastering  vow  ? 

England,  when  Christ  hath  conquered,  answer  thou  ! 


PENITENCE. 

A  SORROW  that  for  shame  had  hid  her  face, 
Soared  to  Heaven's  gate,  and  knelt  in  penance  there 
Beneath  the  dusk  cloud  of  her  own  wet  hair, 
Weeping,  as  who  would  fain  some  deed  erase 
That  blots  in  dread  eclipse  baptismal  grace  : 
Like  a  felled  tree  with  all  its  branches  fair 
She  lay — her  forehead  on  the  ivory  stair — 
Low  murmuring,  "Just  art  Thou,  but  I  am  base." 

*  By  Dr.  Newman. 


SONNETS.  249 

Then  saw  I  in  my  spirit's  unsealed  ken 

How   Heaven's   bright  Hosts   thrilled  like  the   gems 

of  morn 

When  May  winds  on  the  sacred,  snowy  thorn 
The  diamonds  change  to  ruby.     Magdalen 
Arose,  and  kissed  the  Saviour's  feet  once  more, 
And  to   that   suffering  soul   His  peace   and    pardon 

bore. 


BOCCACCIO    AND   CERTALDO. 

THE    world's    blind    pilgrims,   tendering    praise    for 

blame, 

Passing  Certaldo,  point,  and  smile,  and  stare, 
And  with  Boccaccio's  triumph   din  the  air : — 
Ah,  but  for  him  how  high  had  soared  thy  fame, 
Italian  Song  !     False  Pleasure  is  a  flame 
That  brands  the  Muses'  pleasaunce— burns  it  bare 
As  some  volcanic  Island's  barren  glare  : 
O  Italy  !    exult  not  in  thy  shame  ! 
'Twas  here,  'twas  here  thy  Song's  immortal  river 
Lost  its  last  sight  of  hoar  Parnassus'  head, 
And  swerved  through  flowery  meads   to  sandy  bar  : 
Its  saintly  mission  here  it  spurned  for  ever  : 
It  sighed  to  Laura,  and  with  Tancred  bled  : 
But  caught  no  second  gleam  from  Dante's  star  ! 


250  s<\v .VETS. 


A   NIGHT   ON   THE   GENOESE   RIVIERA. 

FANNED  by  sweet  airs  the  road  along  the  cliff 
Wound  in  the  moonlight,  glistening  now,  now  dim  ; 
So  winds  a  silver  snake  in  pale  relief 
Girdling  a  sacrificial  beaker's  brim  : 
Black  rocks  loomed  forth  in  giant  hieroglyph 
O'er  silken  seas  :    amid  their  shadows  grim 
From  lowly  town  dim-lit,  or  dancing  skiff, 
At  times  the  song  was  borne,  at  times  the  hymn. 
Star  after  star  adown  the  blue  vault  sliding 
Their  bright  hair  washed  successive  in  the  wave, 
Till  morning,  from  her  far  purpureal  cave 
Issuing,  and  o'er  the  foamless  billows  gliding, 
Leaped,  as  the  bells  rang  out  from  tower  and  shrine, 
Up  from  her  sea-bath  to  the  hills  of  pine. 


WRITTEN  ON  A  SPOT  BY  THE  ROTHA,  NEAR  AMBLESIDE. 

I  WALKED  in  dream.     Alone  the  bright  Boy  stood 

Half  imaged  in  the  waters  round  his  feet : 

His  line  had  just  been  cast  into  the  flood, 

Then    first ;    his    glance    leaped   forth    the   spoil    to 

meet ! 

The  gold-brown  curls  about  him  waved,  and  sweet 
The  blithesome  smile  of  parted  lips  ;   the  blood 


SO.V.VETS.  251 

Flushing  the  fresh  cheek  like  a  rose  whose  hood, 
With  night-dews  glittering,  airs  of  morning  greet. 
Ah  me  !     Since  that  glad  moment  sixty  years, 
Snow-laden,  on  their  wintry  pinions  frore 
Have  sailed  beyond  the  limit  of  our  spheres, 
And  like  that  fleeting  pageant  are  no  more. 
That  Boy  my  Father  was  !    the  autumnal  day 
He  led  me  to  that  spot  his  hair  was  grey ! 

October  17,  1862. 


COMMON    LIFE. 

OXWARD  between  two  mountain  warders  lies 
The  field  that  man  must  till.     Upon  the  right, 
Church-thronged,  with  summit  hid  by  its  own  height, 
Swells  the  white  range  of  the  Theologies  : 
Upon  the  left  the  hills  of  Science  rise 
Lustrous  but  cold  :    nor  flower  is  there,  nor  blight : 
Between  those  ranges  twain  through  shade  and  light 
Winds  the  low  vale  wherein  the  meek  and  wise 
Repose.     The  knowledge  that  excludes  not  doubt 
Is  there  ;    the  arts  that  beautify  man's  life  : 
There  rings  the  choral  psalm,  the  civic  shout, 
The  genial  revel,  and  the  manly  strife  : 
There  by  the  bridal  rose  the  cypress  waves  : 
And   there    the    all-blest    sunshine    softest    falls    on 
graves. 


252  SONNETS. 

MODERN    DESPONDENCY. 

WRITTEN    IN    DEVONSHIRE. 

SOFT  land,  and  gracious  as  some  nectarous  fruit 
In  whose  warm  bosom  Autumn's  heart  is  glad, 
Thou  hadst  of  old  thy  Bards,*  whose  lyre  and  lute 
Well    praised    thy    meads    and   woodlands   blossom- 
clad : 

Thou  hadst  thy  blithesome  days  !     If  ours  be  sad, 
May  thy  blue  bays  and  orchards  never  mute 
That  sadness  charm — slay  causeless  sorrow's  root — 
Loveless  Self- Will,   the   Pride  that  maketh  mad  ! 
Wed,  blameless   Nature,  wed  with  Grace  Divine 
Once    more,    like    sweet    harps    blent    with    sweeter 

voices, 

Thy  powers  : — then  sing,  till  child  and  man  rejoices 
Betwixt  those  "Double  Seas"  of  England!  Shine, 
Sun  of  past  years  !  Disperse  those  modern  glooms 
At  least  from  golden  Devon's  Tors  and  Combes  ! 


INDUSTRY. 

VIRTUE  defamed  for  sordid,  rough,  and  coarse, 
Unworthy  of  the  glimpses  of  the  moon, 
Praise  of  the  clown  alone  whose  heavy  shoon 
Kneads  the  moist  clay,  nor  spares  the  pure  stream's 
source, 

*  Herrick,  William  Brown,  and  others. 


SONNETS.  253 

In  thee  how  strong  is  grace  !   how  fair  is  force  ! 
How  generous  art  thou,   and  to  man  how  boon  ! 
Not  thine  the  boastful  plain  with  carnage  strewn, 
Nor  chambers  wassail-shamed  where  late  Remorse 
Sits,  the  last  guest !     From  ocean  on  to  ocean, 
From  citied  shore  to  hills  far-forested, 
The  increase  of  earth  is  thine,  in  rest  or  motion ; 
The  crown  is  thine  on  every  Sage's  head  ; 
The  ship,  the  scythe,  the  rainbow  among  flowers — 
Thine     too    the    song    of   girls    exulting   'mid    their 
bowers. 


TO   COLERIDGE. 

WRITTEN    IN   EARLY   YOUTH. 

As  one  who  lies,  when  day  is  almost  done, 

Rocked  in  a  little  boat  upon  a  sea 

Whose  glassy  billows  heave  eternally 

Albeit  the  winds  are  lulled,  watching  the  sun 

That  sinks  behind  those  billows,  and  anon 

Uprises,  while  the  orange  gleams  that  dye 

The  minster  windows  of  the  western  sky 

Are  imaged  in  the  waters  smooth  and  wan  ; 

Coleridge  !   thus  hang  we  on  the  mystic  traces 

Of   that    one    Thought  which   feeds    thy   soul    with 

light ; 

Thus   falls   the    "Idea   of  the    Infinite" 
Upon  our  dazzled  lids  and  luminous  faces  ; 
Thus  sinks,  and  reappears,  and  mocks  our  sight, 
Absorbed  once  more  in  the  great  deep's  embraces. 


254  SOX.VETS. 


PONTEFRACT   CASTLE. 

WIND-WASTED  castle  without  crown  of  towers  ! 
Dread  dungeon  keep,  watching  the  dying  day ! 
A  crownless  king,  great  Edward's  grandson,*  lay 
Wasting  in  thee,  and  counting  prisoned  hours  ! 
A  century  passed  :     The  Faith's  embattled  Powers 
Thus  far  advanced  ;   here  stood,  a  stag  at  bay  : 
The    eighth    Henry    trembled    in    his    blood-stained 

bowers  ; — 

Thou  saw'st  that  "Pilgrimage  of  Grace"  decay! 
Two  Woes  thou  saw'st — the  fall  of  England's  Crown, 
That  drowned  in  blood  her  old  Nobility ; 
Then,  baser  plague,  the  old  Temples  trampled  down 
By    Despots    new !       Twice-doomed !     the    fount    in 

thee 

I  mark  of  that  Red  Sea  which  rolls  between 
England  that  is,  and  England  that  hath  been  ! 


TO   THE   MOST   FAIR. 

FAIR,  noble,  young  !     Of  thee  I  thought  to  sing, 
(If  so  Love  willed,  and  the  ever-virgin  Muse 
Who  cannot  grace  accord  unless  Love  choose, 
Were   pleased  from   Love's  first  bath,  the   Thespian 

Spring 

One  flower,  or  sparkling  drop,  on  me  to  fling,) 
For  ofttimes  thus  some  clan  barbaric  strews 

*  Richard  II. 


SOX -VETS.  255 

Its  earth  and  wood,  the  little  island's  dues, 
Before  his  feet  whom  conquest  made  its  King  : — 
So  dreamed  I,  when,  a  mourner  sad  and  stern, 
The  Muses'  Mother  fixed  on  me  her  eyes — 
Memory — nor  slow  their  meaning  to  discern 
Like  a  child  stung  I  dropped  the  forfeit  prize. 
Some  holier  hand  from  out  the  immortal  river 
The  destined  reed  must  draw,  and  hymn  thy  praise 
for  ever  ! 


FROM  PETRARCH. 

THAT  nightingale  which  wails  with  such  sweet  woe 
Haply  its  young  ones,  haply  its  dear  mate, 
Fills   the   dark  heavens,  and   makes   the  fields  over 
flow 

With  its  wild,  broken  chaunt  disconsolate  : 
Beside  me  all  night  long,  where'er  I  go, 
Its  dirge  reminds  me  of  my  own  sad  fate, 
And  chides  my  blindness  which  refused  to  know 
That  Death  divine  things  too  can  subjugate. 
Ah  !    easy  'tis  to  cheat  the  self-deluded  ! 
Yet  who  had  ever  dreamed  those  sunlike  eyes 
Setting,  should  leave  the  world  in  darkness  shrouded  ? 
But  I  my  pain's  high  mission  recognize — 
It  means  that  I  should  weep  and  live,  and  so 
Learn  that  delight  abides  not  here  below  ! 


256  SONNETS. 


FROM   PETRARCH. 

AH  me  !    how  beauteous  were  those  tears  of  hers 
The  gathered  cloud  of  Passion,  melting,  bred 
When  that  deep  grief  whereon  her  heart  had  fed 
Rose   to  her  eyes,   those  tender,   starlike  spheres  ! 
Wandered  adown  her  delicate  face  her  tears, 
Wandered    o'er    pale    cheeks    touched   with   faintest 

red, 
As   some    clear   stream   through  meads  with   flowers 

o'erspread 

(White  flowers  with  sanguine  mingled)  softly  steers. 
Love  in  that  rain  bewitching  stood  embowered 
Like  blithesome  bird  on  whom  the  longed-for  rays 
Blended  with  drops  of  gentlest  rain  are  showered, 
And,  weeping  'mid  his  home  in  those  fair  eyes, 
Shot  from  the  bosom  of  that  sad,  sweet  haze 
Gleams  of  an  ever-brightening  Paradise  ! 


A   WARNING. 

WHY,  if  he  loves  you,  Lady,  doth  he  hide 
His  love  !     So  humble  is  he  that  his  heart 
Exults  not  in  some  sense  of  new  desert 
With  all  thy  grace  and  goodness  at  his  side  ? 
Ah,  trust  not  thou  the  love  that  hath  no  pride, 
The  pride  wherein  compunction  claims  no  part, 
The  callous  calm  no  doubts  confuse  or  thwart, 


SONNETS  257 

The  untrembling  hope,  and  joy  unsanctified  ! 

He  of  your  beauty  prates  without  remorse: 

You  dropped  last  night  a  lily  ;    on  the  sod 

He  let  it  lie,  and  fade  in  nature's  course  : 

He  looks  not  on  the  ground  your  feet  have  trod  : 

He  smiles  but  with  the  lips,  your  form  in  view  ; 

And  he  will  kiss  one  day  your  lips — not  you. 


PRINCIPLE    A    POWER  ;     OR    LOGIC    IN    HISTORY. 

Lo  !   as  an  Eagle  battling  through  a  cloud 
That  from  his  neck  all  night  the  vapor  flings, 
And  ploughs  the  dark,  till  downward  from  his  wings 
Fierce    sunrise  smites  with   light   some   shipwrecked 

crowd 

Beneath  a  blind  sea-cavern  beat  and  bowed  ; — 
Thus  through  the  storm  of  Men,  the  night  of  Things, 
That  Principle  to  which  the  issue  clings 
Makes  fateful  way,  and  spurns  at  last  its  shroud. 
There  were  that  saw  it  with  a  sceptic  ken  : 
There  were  that  saw  it  not  through  hate  or  pride  : 
But,  conquering  and  to  conquer,  on  it  came, 
No  tool  of  man  but  making  tools  of  men, 
Till  Nations  shook  beneath  its  advent  wide, 
And  they  that  loosed  the  Portent  rued  the  same. 


255  SONNETS. 

COMPOSED   AT   RYDAL. 

SEPTEMBER,    1868. 

THE  last  great  man  by  manlier  times  bequeath'd 
To  these  our  noisy  and  self-boasting  days 
In  this  green  valley  rested,  trod  these  ways, 
With  deep  calm  breast  this  air  inspiring  breathed  ; 
True  bard,  because  true  man,  his  brow  he  wreathed 
With   wild-flowers  only,  singing  Nature's  praise  ; 
But  Nature  turn'd,  and  crown'd  him  with  her  bays, 
And  said,  "  Be  thou  my  Laureate."     Wisdom  sheath'd 
In  song  love-humble;    contemplations  high, 
That  built  like  larks  their  nests  upon  the  ground  ; 
Insight  and  vision  ;    sympathies  profound 
That  spann'd  the  total  of  humanity — 
These  were  the  gifts  which  God  pour'd  forth  at  large 
On   men   through   him  ;    and   he  was  faithful  to  his 
charge. 


TO  WORDSWORTH. 

ON     VISITING     THE     DUDDON.* 

I. 

So  long  as  Duddon  'twixt  his  cloud-girt  walls 

Thridding  the  woody  chambers  of  the  hills 

Warbles  from  vaulted  grot  and  pebbled  halls 

Welcome  or  farewell  to  the  meadow  rills  ; 

So  long  as  linnets  chant  low  madrigals 

Near  that  brown  nook  the  laborer  whistling  tills, 

*  See  Wordsworth's  "  Sonnet  to  the  Poet  Dyer." 


259 


Or  the  late-reddening  apple  forms  and  falls 

'Mid  brakes  whose  heart  the  autumnal  redbreast  thrills, 

So  long,  last  Poet  of  the  great  old  race, 

Shall  thy  broad  song  through  England's  bosom  roll, 

A  river  singing  anthems  in  its  place, 

And  be  to  later  England  as  a  soul. 

Glory  to  Him  who  made  thee,  and  increase 

To  them  that  hear  thy  word,  of  love  and  peace  ! 


ir. 


When  first  that  precinct  sacrosanct  I  trod, 
Autumn  was  there,  but  Autumn  just  begun  ; 
Fronting  the  portals  of  a  sinking  sun 
The  queen  of  quietude  in  vapor  stood, 
Her  sceptre  on  the  dimly-crimson'd  wood 
Resting  in  light.     The  year's  great  work  was  done  ; 
Summer  had  vanish'd,  and  repinings  none 
Troubled  the  pulse  of  thoughtful  gratitude. 
Wordsworth  !   the  autumn  of  our  English  song 
Art  thou  : — 'twas  thine  our  vesper  psalms  to  sing : 
Chaucer  sang  matins  ; — sweet  his  note  and  strong  ; 
His  singing-robe  the  green,  white  garb  of  Spring: 
Thou  like  the  dying  year  art  rightly  stoled — 
Pontific  purple  and  dark  harvest  gold. 


THE    WORLD'S    WORK.  26 1 


THE  WORLDS  WORK. 

WHERE  is  the  brightness  now  that  long 

Brimmed  saddest  hearts  with  happy  tears  ? 
It  was  not  Time  that  wrought  the  wrong : 

Thy  three-and-twenty  vanquished  years 
Crouched  reverent,  round  their  spotless  prize 

Like  lions  awed  that  spare  a  Saint ; 
Forbore  that  face — a  paradise 

No  touch  autumnal  ere  could  taint. 


It  was  not  sorrow.     Prosperous  love 

Her  amplest  streams  for  thee  poured  forth, 
As  when  the  Spring  in  some  rich  grove 

With  blue-bells  spreads  a  sky  on  earth. 
Subverted  Virtue  !    They  the  most 

Lament,  that  seldom  deign  to  sigh; 
O  World !  is  this  fair  wreck  thy  boast  ? 

Is  this  thy  triumph,  Vanity  ? 


What  power  is  that  which,  being  nought, 

Can  unmake  stateliest  works  of  God  ? 
What  brainless  thing  can  vanquish  thought? 

What  heartless,  leave  the  heart  a  clod  ? 
The  radiance  quench,  yet  add  the  glare  ? 

Dry  up  the  flood ; — make  loud  the  shoal  ? 
And,  merciless  in  malice,  spare 

That  mask,  a  face  without  a  soul? 


262  THE   CHURCHES   WORK. 

Ah  Parian  brows  that  overshone 

Eyes  bluer  than  Egean  seas  ! 
One  time  God's  glory  wrote  thereon 

Goodwill's  two  Gospels,  Love  and  Peace. 
Ah  smile  !     Around  those  lips  of  hers 

The  lustre  rippled  and  was  still, 
As  when  a  gold  leaf  falling  stirs 

A  moment's  tremor  on  the  rill ! 


THE  CHURCHES  WORK. 

HER  coral  lip  a  sun-beam  smote : 

Behind  her  shapely  head 
The  white  veil  refluent  seemed  to  float 

Like  clouds  in  ether  spread  : 
She  looked  so  noble,  sweet,  and  good, 

Love  clapped  his  hands  for  glee, 
And  cried,  "This,  this  is  Womanhood — 

The  rest  but  female  be  !" 


So  modest,  yet  confiding  too — 

So  tender  to  bestow 
On  each  that  loving  honor  due 

To  all  things,  high  or  low, 
Her  soft  self-reverence  part  had  none 

In  consciousness  or  pride, 
A  reflex  of  that  worship  won 

From  her  by  all  beside. 


A    GIRL'S   SONG.  263 

So  creaturely  in  all  her  ways, 

So  humbly  great  she  seemed — 
O  Grecian  lays,  O  Pagan  praise, 

Of  such  ye  never  dreamed  ! 
Through  sunshine  on  she  moved  as  one 

Innocuously  possest 
(Thy  lot  reversed,  O  Babylon  !) 

By  some  angelic  guest. 


Buoyant  as  bird  in  leafy  bower, 

As  calm  she  looked  as  those 
Who  long  have  worn  the  nuptial  flower 

Upon  their  matron  brows: 
Yet  ten  years  hence,  when  girl  and  boy 

May  mount  her  lap  at  will, 
That  virgin  grace,  that  vestal  joy 

Now  hers  will  haunt  her  still ! 


A  GIRL'S  SONG. 

UNKIND  was  he,  the  first  who  sang 

The  spring-tide  shamed,  the  flower's  decay  ! 

What  woman  yet  without  a  pang 

Could  hear  of  Beauty's  fleeting  May  ? 

O  Beauty  !  with  me  bide,  and  I 

A  maid  will  live,  a  maid  will  die. 


204  A    SONG  OF  AGE. 

Could  I  be  always  fair  as  now, 

And  hear,  as  now,  the  Poets  sing 
"The  long-lashed  eyes,  the  virgin  brow, 

The  hand  well  worthy  kiss  and  ring," 
Then,  then  some  casual  grace  were  all 
That  e'er  from  me  on  man  should  fall ! 


I  sailed  last  night  on  Ina's  stream : 
Warm  'mid  the  wave  my  fingers  lay ; 

The  cold-lipped  Naiad  in  my  dream 

Kissed  them,  and  sighed,  and  slipped  away- 

Ah  me!  down  life's  descending  tide 

Best  things,  they  say,  the  swiftliest  glide. 


A   SONG   OF  AGE. 


WHO  mourns  ?    Flow  on,  delicious  breeze ! 

Who  mourns,  though  youth  and  strength  go  by  ? 
Fresh  leaves  invest  the  vernal  trees, 

Fresh  airs  will  drown  my  latest  sigh. 
What  am  I  but  a  part  outworn 

Of  earth's  great  Whole  that  lifts  more  high 
A  tempest-freshened  brow  each  morn 

To  meet  pure  beams  and  azure  sky? 


STANZAS.  265 

II. 

Thou  world-renewing  breath,  sweep  on, 

And  waft  earth's  sweetness  o'er  the  wave ! 
That  earth  will  circle  round  the  sun 

When  God  takes  back  the  life  He  gave ! 
To  each  his  turn  !     Even  now  I  feel 

The  feet  of  children  press  my  grave, 
And  one  deep  whisper  o'er  it  steal — 

"  The  Soul  is  His  Who  died  to  save." 


STANZAS. 

HER  kiss,  ere  yet  he  snatched  it  thence 
On  lips  like  rose-leaves  twice  had  trembled 

The  Bard,   and  Love's    Intelligence 
Marked  the  brief  trifle  ill-dissembled : 


Far  off  a  horse's  hoof  we  heard : 
She  turned :  her  sunny  blush  we  noted : 

She  sang  as  sings  the  enamored  bird — 
That  kiss  within  her  fancy  floated. 


And  just  ere  yet  he  reached  the  door, 
So  shook  that  white  vest  ringlet-shaded, 

Such  sweetness  sank  those  eyelids  o'er, 
I  knew  that  in  her  heart  she  made  it ! 


266  LINES, 

Ah  Girl !  ah  Child  !  To  men  a  kiss 
Is  oft  a  seal,  dissolved  or  broken : 

To  Maids  the  seal  impressed  it  is — 

Truth's  solemn  pledge — Joy's  laughing  token  ! 


LINES. 

ONLY  a  reed  that  sighed : — 
And  the  Poplar  grove  hard  by 

From  a  million  of  babbling  mouths  replied, 
"  Who  cares,  who  cares  ?     Not  I  !" 


Only  a  dove's  low  moan : — 

And  the  new-gorged  raven  near 
Let  fall  from  the  red  beak  the  last  white  bone, 

And  answered,  half  croak,  half  sneer. 


The  pale,  still  face  too  soon 

Was  paler,  stiller  thrice  : 
And  ere  the  rose  burst  in  the  breast  of  June 

The  young,  warm  heart  was  ice. 


SAD  MUSIC.  267 


SAD  MUSIC. 

DESCEND  into  the  depths  forlorn 
Of  this  obscured  and  silent  soul, 

O  Song  !    With  gradual  breath,  like  morn, 
Our  spirits  touch,  and  make  them  whole! 


Blot  thou  base  worlds,  and  make  us  see 
Those  pitying  Presences  which  stand 

Round  sensuous  life  perpetually, 
And  beckon  to  the  Spirit-land. 


Teach  us  to  feel  the  Truths  we  know: 
The  shores  we  tend  to — draw  them  nigh 

The  things  that  leave  us — bid  them  go 
With  modulated  movement  by. 

Song  sad  and  sweet,  the  power  be  thine 
Breeze-like  o'er  life's  suspended  wreath 

To  sprinkle  freshening  dews  benign, 
And  waft  us  toward  the  gates  of  Death 


With  happier  grace  than  his  who  reared 
The  mild  Caducean  wand,  and  led 

O'er  Lethe's  wave,  no  longer,  feared, 
The  pensive  Shades  of  Heroes  dead. 


268 


LINES. 


LINES. 

CAN  a  man  sit  mute  by  a  fast-barred  door 
While  the  night-showers  cut  through  the  shiver 
ing  skin, 

Yet  love  in  her  hardness,  love  on,  love  more, 
That  cold-eyed  Beauty  who  smiles  within  ? 

Such  a  man — he  is  dead  long  since — I  knew: 

There  was  one  that  never  could  know  him — You  ! 


Can  a  man  from  the  gunwale  his  grasp  relax 
Nor  bend  his  brow,  as  he  sinks  in  the  tide, 

At  the  veil  held  back  by  the  hand  of  wax 
That  might  have  saved  him,  yet  help  denied  ? 

Such  a  man — he  is  dead  at  last — I  knew : 

There  was  one  who  never  could  know  him — You  ! 


My  friend  is  dead : — it  was  time  he  died  ! 

His  heart  was  yours  while  a  pulse  remained : 
Red  lips,  do  ye  chide  for  pity  or  pride 

That  the  beaker  ye  quaffed  so  often  is  drained  ? 
By  that  hand  of  wax,  by  that  eye's   cold  blue, 
The  prize  he  lost  was  a  loss  for  two  ! 


MARCH  OMEXS.  269 


MARCH  OMENS. 

ON  ivied  stems  and  leafless  sprays 
The  sunshine  lies  in  dream : 

Scarcely  yon  mirrored  willow  sways 
Within  the  watery  gleam. 


In  woods  far  off  the  dove  is  heard, 
And  streams  that  feed  the  lake  ; 

All  else  is  hushed  save  one  small  bird 
That  twitters  in  the  brake. 


Yet  something  works  through  earth  and  air, 

A  sound  less  heard  than  felt, 
Whispering  of  Nature's  procreant  care, 

While  the  last  snow-flakes  melt. 


The  year  anon  her  rose  will  don; 

But  to-day  this  trance  is  best — 
This  weaving  of  fibre  and  knitting  of  bone 

In  Earth's  maternal  breast. 


270  FEBRUARY. 


FEBRUARY. 

WHAT  dost  thou,  laggard  Daffodil, 
Tarrying  so  long  beneath  the  sod  ? 

Hesper,  thy  mate,  o'er  yonder  hill 

Looks  down  and  strikes  with  silver  rod 

The  pools  that  mirrored  thee  last  year, 

Yet  cannot  find  thee  far  or  near. 

Pale  Primrose  !  for  a  smile  of  thine 

Gladly  to  earth  these  hands  would  pour 

An  ivied  urn  of  purple  wine, 
Such  as  at  Naxos  Bacchus  bore, 

Watching  with  fixed  black  eyes  the  while     . 

That  pirate  barque  draw  near  his  isle  ! 

Shake  down,  dark  Pine,  thy  scalp  of  snow — 
False  witch,  stripped  bare,  grim  Ash-tree  tall ! 

Ye  ivy  masses  that  now  swing   slow 

Now  shudder  in  spasms  on  the  garden  wall, 

Shake  down  your  load   and  the  borders   strew ; 

The  rosemary  borders  and  banks  of  rue. 

The  Robin,  winter's  Nightingale, 

Hung  mute  to-day  on  the  blackthorn  brake : 
We  heard  but  the  water-fowl  pipe  and  wail 

Fluting  aloud  on  the  lake  ; 
Who  hears  that  bell-note  so  clear  and  free 
Though  inland  he  stands,  beholds  the  sea. 


WITH  A    BOOK  OF   VERSE.  27 1 

As  the  moon  that  rises  of  saffron  hue 

Ascending,  changes  to  white, 
So  the  year,  with  the  Daffodil  rising  new, 

On  Narcissus  will  soon  alight : — 
Rise  up,  thou  Daffodil,  rise  !     With  thee 
The  year  begins,  and  the  spring-tide  glee  ! 


WITH  A    BOOK   OF    VERSE, 

HE  knew  not,  he  that  wrote  this  book, 
Thine  eyes  should  one  day  glance  thereon 

So  shines  Aurora  on  a  brook : 

Her  splendor  spreads ;  the  brook  is  gone. 


Her  glory  dawns  from  height  to  height: 
He  sinks  through  forest  shades  beneath  : 

Fate  drags  him  down  through  caves  of  night 
Low-chaunting  lessening  songs  of  death. 


Ah  me,  Aurora  !  smile  but  thou 

On  one  poor  page  with  beam  benign  ! 

No  meaner  radiance  needs  the  brow, 
Or  book,  refreshed  with  light  of  thine 


272  A  PPEA  RA  NCE  S. 


A  PPEA  RA  NCES. 

SCIENCE  her  sunless  vigil  kept 

In   soundings   of  a  league-deep   sea : 

The    Hour  had   come  :    the   Hour  on   swept 
From   Time   into   Eternity. 

Ambition   o  er  the   hills   of  War 

Tracked   the  red  path  which  goal   hath  none, 
Following  its    blind   on-rushing   star 

That   circles   round   no  central   sun. 

O'er  palace    fronts    Imperial   pride 

Raised   the   rich    fretwork   high   and    higher: 
Through   all   its   worlds,    on   wind   and    tide 

Trade   rolled   the   wheels   that   never  tire. 

The   Lover   nursed   his   hectic   dream ; 

The   Poet   wailed  a  glory  dead ; 
The    Enthusiast   chased   a  flying  gleam, 

While,   winged   with   Fate,    the   Hour   on   sped. 

They  sowed,    they  reaped,  they  woke,   they  slept 
Free    changed   to   bond,    and   bond   to   free : 

Realm  strove   with   realm,   and  sept  with  sept — 
These  were   the   things   that   seemed   to   be. 

% 
That  hour,   unnoticed   and  unknown, 

An   orphan   laid  him   down   to   die : 
That  hour   God   reaped   what   God   had   sown  : 

That  was   alone  Reality. 


DEA  TH. 


DEATH, 


FROM  death   the   strongest   spirit  shrinks, 
For   mystery   veils  the   last   dread    strife 

None   loves   to  die.     And   yet  methinks 
We   have  been  dying  all  our  life. 


When   first   thy   childhood   sang   its    hymn 
Above   the   opening  bud,    that  hour 

Thine  Infancy   with    eyelids    dim 

Lay  cold   in   death,    a  faded  flower ! 


When   Youth  in   turn   its   place   had   won, 
What   whispered    Childhood's    ebbing  breath  ? 

Sad   words    it   sighed   o'er   bright   things   gone, 
And  that  First  Sin,  true  Childhood's  death. 


And  Youth  was  dead  ere  Manhood  came : 
And  Wisdom's  fruits  of  bitter   taste 

Were   rooted   in  a  soil  of  shame, 

Poor  funeral   fruits  of  manhood's  waste. 


O    Life,   long-dying,    wholly   die, 

That  Death    not  less    may   die    at   last : 

And  live,   thou  great   Eternity 

That   Present  art  at  once   and    Past  ! 


274  ST.  COLUMKILISS  FAREWELL. 


ST.     CO LUM KILL'S    FAREWELL     TO     THE 

ISLE    OF  ARRAN,    ON  SETTING    SAIL 

FOR  ION  A* 

FROM  THE  GAELIC. 

FAREWELL  to  Arran   Isle,f  farewell  ! 

I    steer   for   Hy  \%  my  heart  is   sore: — 
The   breakers   burst,   the  billows   swell 

'Twixt  Arran   Isle   and   Alba's  §   shore. 

Thus   spake   the   Son   of  God,   "Depart!" — 

0  Arran   Isle,    God's   will   be   done  ! 
By   Angels   thronged   this  hour  thou   art : 

1  sit   within   my  bark   alone. 

O    Modan,   well   for   thee   the   while ! 

Fair  falls   thy  lot,   and   well  art    thou  ! 
Thy  seat  is   set   in   Arran    Isle  : 

Eastward   to   Alba   turns   my  prow. 

O   Arran,    Sun   of  all   the   West ! 

My  heart  is   thine  !     As   sweet   to  close 
Our   dying   eyes   in   thee   as   rest 

Where   Peter  and  where   Paul  repose ! 

*  From  the  prose  translation  in  vol.  i.  of  the  Transactions  of  the 
Gaelic  Society,  Dublin,  1808. 

t  In  the  Bay  of  Galway.  It  was  one  of  the  chief  retreats  of  the 
Irish  monks  and  missionaries,  and  still  abounds  in  religious  memo 
rials. 

$  lona.  §  Scotland. 


ST.    COLUMK1LISS  FAREWELL.  ^75 

O    Arran,    Sun   of  all   the   West ! 

My  heart  in   thee  its  grave   hath   found: 
He   walks   in   regions   of  the   blest 

The   man   that  hears  thy  church-bells   sound ! 

O   Arran   blest,    O    Arran   blest ! 

Accursed  the  man  that  loves  not  thee  ! 
The  dead   man   cradled   in   thy  breast — 

No  demon  scares  him :    well  is   he. 

Each   Sunday   Gabriel  from   on  high 
(For   so   did  Christ  our    Lord  ordain) 

Thy   Masses    comes   to   sanctify, 
With   fifty   Angels   in   his   train. 

Each  Monday   Michael  issues   forth 

To  bless   anew   each   sacred   fane  : 

Each  Tuesday  cometh    Raphael 

To  bless  pure  hearth   and    golden  grain. 

Each   Wednesday   cometh    Uriel, 

Each    Thursday   Sariel,    fresh   from   God; 

Each    Friday   cometh    Ramael 
To  bless   thy  stones  and    bless   thy  sod. 

Each    Saturday  comes    Mary, 

Comes    Babe   on   arm,   'mid   heavenly  hosts  ! 
O   Arran,   near   to   heaven  is   he 

That   hears    God's    Angels    bless   thy  coasts  ! 


7  CHARITY. 

CHARITY. 

THOUGH  all   the   world  reject  thee,   yet  will    I 
Fold   thee,    with   all    thine  errors,    in    my   heart, 
And   cherish   even   thy  weakness  !     Who   can    say 
That  he   is   free  from  sin  ;    or  that   to   him 
Belongs   to   speak   the  judgments   of  the   Lord, 
To   vindicate  the  dignity  of  Heaven  ? 
Behold   the    Master  !    prostrate    at   His   feet, 
Shuddering   with   penitential    agony, 
Magdalen  !     O  those   mild   forgiving    eyes, 
Mercy  and  pity   blossoming   in    Love  ! 
O   lips   full  founts   of  pardon   and  of  blessing  ! 
Shall    I,   a   sinner,    scorn   a   sinner,   or 
Less    love   my   brother   seeing  he   is  weak? 
Shall    not    my   heart   yearn   to   his   helplessness 
Like   the   fond  mother's  to   her  idiot  boy  ? 
O   cruel   mockery,    to   call   that  love 
Which  the  world's  frown    can  wither  !     Hypocrite  ! 
False   friend !     Base   selfish   man !    fearing   to  lift 
Thy  soiled   fellow   from   the   dust !     From   thee 
The   love   of  friends,    the   sympathy  of  kind 
Recoil   like   broken   waves   from   a  bare   cliff, — 
Waves  that  from  far  seas  come  with  noiseless  step 
Slow  stealing   to   some   lonely   ocean   isle ; — 
With   what   tumultuous  joy   and   fearless   trust 
They   fling   themselves    upon    its    blackened  breast, 
And  wind   their  arms   of  foam    around    its    feet, 
Seeking  a  home  ;    but  finding   none,   return 
With   slow,    sad   ripple,    and   reproachful  murmur. 
No  !    No  !    True   Chanty   scorns   not   the   love 
Even   of  the  guiltiest,   but  treasures   up 


ON"  VISITING  A   HA  UNT  OF  COLERIDGE'S.      ?7 

The    precious   gift  within   its   heart  of  hearts, 
Freely    returning  love   where   wanted   most, 
Like   flowers    that  from   the   generous    air  imbibe 
The   essences    of  life,    and  give    them   forth 
Again   in    odors.     Spirit    of   Love    Divine 
That  filled'st   with    tenderness    the   reverent   eyes 
Of  Mary   as    she   gazed    upon   her   Babe, 
Soften   our   stony    nature  ;    make   us   know 
How  much    we    need    to   be   forgiven ;    build   up 
True    Charity   on   humbleness  of  heart. 

S.  E.  DE  VERE. 


ON  VISITING  A  HA  UNT  OF  COLERIDGE'S. 

FROM  Lynton,  where  the  double  streams 
Through  forest-hung  ravines  made  way, 
And  bounded  into  seas  late  grey 

That    shook   with   morning's   earliest  beams, 
I   wandered   on    to    Porlock  bay  ; 

And  thence,  for  love  of  him  who  sang 
His  happiest  songs  beside  their  rills, 
To  "seaward  Quantock's  heathy  hills" 

Advanced,    while   lane   and  hedge-grove   rang, 
And  all   the   song-birds    "had   their  wills." 

There,   like   a   sweet  face  dimmed  with   pain, 
The   scene  grew  dark  with   mist  and   shower : 
Its   yellow   leaf  the   autumnal  bower 

Moulted   full   fast';    and  as   the   rain 

Washed  the   last  fragrance   from   the  flower, 


278       ON   VISITING  A    HAUNT  OF  COLERIDGE'S. 

I    heard   the  blue-robed   schoolboy's   tongue 
Thrilling   Christ's    Hospital   once   more 
With   mystic   chaunt  and   antique   lore, 

While   round  their   Bard  his  playmates  hung, 
Wondering,   and  sighed,   the   witchery  o'er. 


I   saw    him  tread   soft   Devon's   coombes  : — 
Ah,   thence   he  drew  that  southern  grace 
Which  in   his   song  held  happy  place 

Amid  the   shrouded  northland  glooms, 
Like  some   strange  flower  of  alien  race. 

That   Bard  who   like   a  gleam,   or  strain 
Of  music,   crossed  at  morn   and   eve 
Those   hills,    who   sang   of  Genevieve, 

And   that   weird    Pilgrim   from   the   main, 
Not  less,   at   Truth's   command,   could  leave 

Song's   sheltered  haunt  the    heights   to   climb 
Where,   passing  cloud   and  precipice, 
Mind,  throned   among  the   seas   of  ice, 

Watches  from   specular   tower   sublime 

Far  visions   kenned  through  freezing  skies, 

Outlines   of  Thought,   like  hills   through   mist 
That  stretch   athwart  the    Infinite 
In   dread   mathesis   lines    of  light — 

Such   Thoughts   the   Muse's   spell  resist ; 
Above   her   mark   they   wing  their   flight ! 


ON   VISITING  A    HAUNT  OF  COLERIDGE'S.      279 

The   songs   he   gave   us,   what  were   they 
But  preludes    to   some  loftier  rhyme 
That  would   not   leave   the   spheral   chime, 

The    concords    of  eternal    Day, 

And   speak  itself  in   words   of  Time  ? 


O   ever   famished    Heart  !     O   hands 
That   still   "  drew  nectar  in   a  sieve  !" 
At  birth   of  thine   what  witch   had  leave 

To  bind   such   strength   in   willow  bands, 
The   web  half- woven  to   unweave  ? 


Oh   for  those    Orphic   songs   unheard 
That  lived   but   in   the  singer's   thought ! 
Who   sinned  ?     Whose  hand  defeature  wrought  ? 

Unworthy   was   the   world   or    Bard 
To  clasp   those   Splendors   all  but  caught? 

What  Bard   of  all  who  e'er  have  sung 
Since  that  lark   sang  when  Eve  had  birth, 
Song's  inmost  soul  had  uttered  forth 

Like  thee  ?    from   Song's  asperge  had  flung 
Her  lesser  baptism  o'er  the  earth  ? 

The  world's  base   Poets  have  not  kept 
Song's   vigil   on  her  vestal  height, 
Nor   scorned  false   pride  and  foul  delight, 

Nor   with    the   weepers   rightly  wept, 
Nor  seen   God's  visions   in  the  night! 


2oO       ON   VISITING  A    HAUNT  OF  COLERIDGE'S. 

Profane  to  enthrone  the  Sense,  and  add 
A  gleam  that  lies  to  shapes  that  pass, 
Ah  me  !  in  song  as  in  a  glass 

They  might   have    shewn   us    glory-clad 
His  Face   Who  ever  is   and  was  ! 


They  might  have   shown  us  cloud  and   leaf 

Lit  with   the  radiance   uncreate ; 

Love,   throned  o'er  vanquished   Lust  and  Hate 
Joy,   gem-distilled   through   rocks  of  Grief; 

And  Justice   conquering   Time   and   Fate  ! 


But  they  immodest  brows  have   crowned 
With   violated  bud   and  flower : — 
Courting  the   high   Muse   "par  amour," 

Upon   her   suppliants   she  hath   frowned, 
And  sent   them  darkness   for  a  dower. 


Better  half-sight  and  tear-dimmed  day 
Than  dust-defiled,  o'er-sated  Touch! 
Better  the  torn  wing  than  the  crutch ! 

Better  who  hide   their  gift  than   they 
Who  give   so   basely  and  so   much. 

Thy  song  was  pure  :  thy  heart  was  high 
Thy  genius  in  its  strength  was  chaste: 
And  if  that  genius  ran  to  waste, 

Unblemished  as   its   native   sky 
O'er  diamond  rocks  the  river  raced  ! 


ON   VISITING  A   HAUNT   OF  COLERIDGE'S.      28l 

Great    Bard !     To   thee   in  youth   my   heart 
Rushed    as    the    maiden's    to    the   boy, 
When  love,    too   blithesome   to   be   coy, 

No   want   forebodes   and   feels   no   smart, 
A   self-less   love   self-brimmed  with  joy  ! 


Still   sporting  with  those   amaranth  leaves 
That   shape   for   others   coronals, 
I    ask   not   on   whose  head   it  falls 

That   crown   the   Fame   Pandemian   weaves — 
Thee,   thee   the   Fame   Uranian   calls  ! 


For  wildered  feet  point   thou  the   path 
Which   mounts    to   where    triumphant   sit 
The   Assumed  of  Earth,   all   human   yet, 

From   sun-glare   safe,   and   tempest's   wrath, 
Who   sing  for   love;    nor  those  forget, 


The  Elders  crowned  that,  singing,  fling 
Their  crowns  upon  the  Temple  floor; 
Those  Elders  ever  young,  though  hoar, 

Who   count  all  praise  an   idle   thing 
Save   His   who   lives   for  evermore ! 


282  AUTUMNAL   ODE. 

AUTUMNAL    ODE. 

DEDICATED   TO    MY   SISTER. 

OCTOBER,    1867. 
I. 

MINSTREL  and   Genius,  to  whose  songs  or  sighs 
The  round  earth  modulates  her  changeful  sphere, 

That  bend'st  in  shadow  from  yon  western   skies, 
And  lean'st,  cloud-hid,  along  the  woodlands    sere, 
Too    deep    thy  notes — too    pure — for  mortal   ear  ! 
Yet   Nature   hears   them :    without  aid  of  thine 
How  sad   were   her  decline ! 

From  thee   she  learns   with  just  and  soft  gradation 
Her   dying  hues   in   death   to   harmonize; 
Through   thee   her  obsequies 

A  glory  wear  that  conquers    desolation. 

Through    thee    she     singeth,    "  Faithless     were     the 
sighing 

Breathed  o'er  a  beauty  only  born   to   fleet : 

A    holy   thing   and   precious    is    the   dying 

Of  that   whose  life  was   innocent   and   sweet." 

From   many  a  dim  retreat 

Lodged  on  high-bosomed,  echoing  mountain  lawn, 
Or   chiming   convent  'mid   dark   vale  withdrawn, 

From   cloudy   shrine   or  rapt  oracular  seat 

Voices   of  loftier  worlds  that  saintly  strain  repeat. 

II. 

It   is   the   Autumnal   Epode   of  the  year  : 
The    nymphs     that    urge    the     seasons     on     their 
round, 


AUTUMNAL    ODE.  263 

They   to   whose  green   lap  flies   the   startled  deer 

When  bays   the   far  off  hound, 
They   that  drag   April  by   the   rain-bright  hair, 
(Though   sun-showers  daze  her  and  the   rude  winds 

scare) 

O'er   March's    frosty  bound, 
They  by   whose   warm   and   furtive   hand  unwound 

The   cestus  falls  from  May's  new-wedded  breast — 
Silent   they   stand   beside   dead    Summer's   bier, 

With   folded   palms,   and  faces   to   the  West, 
And   their  loose   tresses  sweep   the  dewy  ground. 


in. 


A  sacred   stillness  hangs   upon  the  air, 

A   sacred  clearness.      Distant  shapes   draw  nigh : 
Glistens   yon   Elm-grove,   to   its   heart  laid  bare, 
And   all   articulate   in   its   symmetry, 
With   here   and  there  a  branch  that  from  on  high 
Far  flashes   washed   as   in   a  watery  gleam : 
Beyond,    the   glossy  lake   lies  calm — a  beam 
Upheaved,    as    if   in    sleep,    from    its    slow    central 
stream. 


IV. 


This   quiet — is   it  Truth,   or  some  fair  mask  ? 

Is    pain    no    more  ?      Shall    Sleep    be    lord,     not 

Death  ? 
Shall   sickness   cease  to  afflict  and  overtask 

The   spent  and  laboring   breath? 


2^>4  AUTUMNAL    ODE. 

Is   there   'mid   all  yon   farms  and   fields,   this   day, 
No  grey  old  head  that  drops  ?     No  darkening  eye  ? 

Spirits   of  Pity,    lift   your   hands,  and   pray — 
Each   hour,   alas,   men  die  ! 

v. 

The  love   songs  of  the    Blackbird   now  are   done : 

Upon   the   o'ergrown,   loose,   red-berried  cover 
The  latest   of  late   warblers   sings  as   one 

That   trolls    at   random   when    the   feast   is    over: 
From  bush  to  bush  the  dusk-bright  cobwebs  hover, 

Silvering   the   dried-up   rill's    exhausted   urn  ; 
No   breeze   is   fluting  o'er   the  green   morass  : 
Nor   falls   the   thistle-down :    in  deep-drenched  grass, 
Now  blue,  now  red,  the  shifting  dew-gems  burn. 

VI. 

Mine  ear  thus   torpid   held,   methinks   mine   eye 
Is    armed   the   more   with   visionary   power : 
As   with   a  magnet's   force   each    redd'ning    bower 

Compels   me   through   the  woodland  pageantry  : 

Slowly  I    track   the   forest's    skirt :     emerging, 
Slowly    I    climb   from  pastoral    steep   to   steep : 

I    see   far   mists  from   reedy   valleys    surging : 
I    follow   the  procession   of  white   sheep 
That   fringe   with    wool  old  stock  and   ruined  rath, 

How   staid   to-day,   how   eager   when   the   lambs 

Went   leaping  round  their  dams  ! 

I    cross  the  leaf-choked  stream  from  stone  to  stone, 
Pass   the   hoar  ash   tree,    trace   the   upland  path, 

The   furze-brake   that  in   March   all  golden   shone 
Reflected   in  the   shy  kingfisher's   bath. 


AUTU M:\AL  ODE.  285 

VII. 

No   more   from  full-leaved   woods   that  music  swells 
Which  in   the   summer  filled  the   satiate  ear : 

A  fostering  sweetness  still  from  bosky  dells 
Murmurs ;  but  I  can  hear 

A  harsher  sound  when  down,   at  intervals, 

The   dry  leaf  rattling  falls. 

Dark  as   those   spots   which   herald  swift   disease 

The  death-blot  marks   for  death   the  leaf  yet    firm  : 

Beside   the   leaf  down-trodden   trails   the  worm : 
In   forest  depths   the   haggard,   whitening  grass 

Repines   at  youth   departed.     Half-stripped  trees 
Reveal,  as  one  who  says,    "Thou  too  must  pass," 

Plainlier  each   day  their  quaint  anatomies. 

Yon   Poplar  grove   is   troubled!     Bright  and  bold 

Babbled   his   cold  leaves   in   the  July  breeze 

As  though  above  our  heads  a  runnel  rolled : 
His  mirth  is  o'er :  subdued  by  old  October 
He  counts  his  lessening  wealth,  and,  sadly  sober, 

Tinkles   his   minute  tablets   of   wan  gold. 

VIII. 

Be   still,   ye   sighs   of  the  expiring  year  ! 

A   sword   there  is : — ye  play  but  with  the  sheath  ! 
Whispers   there   are   more  piercing,   yet  more  dear 
,     Than    yours,   that  come   to  me   those  boughs  be 
neath  ; 
And   well-remembered   footsteps   known  of  old 

Tread   soft  the   mildewed   mould. 
O   magic   memory  of  the   things   that  were — 

Of  those  whose  hands   our  childish  -locks   carest, 


286  AUTUMNAL    ODE. 

Of  one  so  angel-like   in   tender  care, 
Of  one   in  majesty  so   God-like   drest — 

0  phantom  faces   painted  on   the   air 
Of  friend  or  sudden  guest; — 

1  plead  in   vain: 

The   woods  revere,   but  cannot  heal  my  pain. 
Ye  sheddings  from  the  Yew  tree  and  the  Pine, 
If  on   your  rich  and  aromatic  dust 

I   laid  my   forehead,   and  my  hands   put  forth 
In  the  last  beam  that  warms   the  forest  floor, 
No   answer   to   my  yearnings   would   be   mine, 
To  me   no   answer  through   those   branches   hoar 
Would  reach  in  noontide  trance  or  moony  gust! 
Her    secret    Heaven    would  keep,    and    mother 

Earth 

Speak  from  her  deep  heart—"  Where  thou  know'st 
not,   trust !" 

IX, 

That  pang  is  past.     Once   more  my  pulses  keep 

A  tenor    calm,   that  knows   nor  grief  nor  joy  ; 
Once  more   I   move  as   one  that  died  in  sleep, 

And  treads,   a  Spirit,   the  haunts  he  trod,  a  boy, 
And   sees   them  like-unlike,   and   sees  beyond  : 
Then   earthly  life  comes  back,   and   I   despond. 
Ah  life,   not  life !     Dim  woods  of  crimsoned  beech 

That  swathe   the   hills   in   sacerdotal  stoles, 
Burn   on,   burn  on  !   the  year  ere  long  will  reach 

That  day  made  holy  to   Departed  Souls, 
The  day  whereon   man's   heart,    itself  a  priest, 

Descending  to   that   Empire   pale   wherein 


AUTUMNAL    ODE.  287 

Beauty    and   Sorrow  dwell,   but  pure  from   Sin, 

Holds  with  God's  Church  at  once  its  fast  and  feast. 

Dim    woods,   they,    they    alone    your    vaults    should 
tread, 

The   sad   and  saintly   Dead  ! 

Your  pathos   those   alone   ungrieved   could  meet 
Who  fit  them  for  the   Beatific  Vision  : 

The   things  that  as  they  pass   us   seem  to   cheat, 
To   them   would  be  a   music-winged   fruition, 
A   cadence   sweetest  in   the   soft   subsiding : 
Transience    to    them    were    dear; — for  theirs    the 
abiding — 

Dear    as    that   Pain  which  clears    from  fleshly    film 
The   spirit's   eye,   matures   each   spirit-germ, 
Frost-bound  on   earth,   but  at  the  appointed  term 

Mirror  of  Godhead   in   the  immortal  realm. 


Lo  there  the  regal  exiles ! — under  shades 
Deeper  than  ours,   yet  in   a  finer  air — 
Climbing,   successive,    elders,   youths,   and  maids, 
The  penitential   mountain's  ebon   stair  : 
The  earth-shadow  clips  that  halo  round  their  hair : 
And   as   lone   outcasts   watch   a  moon   that  wanes, 
Receding  slowly  o'er  their  native  plains, 

Thus  watch   they,   wistful,  something  far  but  fair. 
Serene   they   stand,   and   wait, 
Self-exiled  by  the  ever-open  gate : 
Awhile   self-exiled   from   the   All-pitying   Eyes, 
Lest   mortal   stain   should   blot   their   Paradise. 


238 


AUTUMNAL    ODE. 


Silent   they  pace,   ascending  high   and   higher 
The   hills   of  God,   a   hand  on   every  heart 

That   willing  burns,   a  vase   of  cleansing  fire 
Fed  by   God's  love   in   souls   from   God   apart. 

Each   lifted   face  with   thirst   of  long  desire 
Is   pale;    but   o'er   it  grows   a  mystic   sheen, 
Because   on   them   God's   face,   by  them   unseen, 

Is  turned,  through  narrowing  darkness  hourly  nigher. 

XI. 

Sad  thoughts,   why  roam  ye   thus   in   your  unrest 

The  bourne  unseen  ?   Why  scorn  our  mortal  bound  ? 
Is    it   not    kindly,    Earth's    maternal   breast  ? 

Is     it     not    fair,     her    head     with     vine  -  wreaths 

crowned  ? 
Farm-yard   and  barn  are  heaped  with  golden  store  ; 

High   piled   the   sheaves   illume   the   russet  plain; 
Hedges   and   hedge-row   trees   are   yellowed   o'er 

With   waifs   and   trophies   of  the  laboring  wain  : 
Why    murmur,    "  Change    is    change,    when    down 
ward   ranging  ; 

Spring's    upward    change    but    pointed    to    the    un 
changing  ?" 

Yet,    O   how  just  your   sorrow,    if  ye   knew 
The   true   griefs    sanction   true  ! 
'Tis  not  the  thought  of  parting  youth  that  moves  us ; 

'Tis   not  alone   the  pang  for  •  friends   departed : 
The   Autumnal   pain   that   raises   while  it  proves   us 

Wells .  from   a  holier   source    and    deeper-hearted  ! 
For  this   a  sadness   swells  above  our  mirth  ; 

For  this  a  bitter  runs  beneath   the    sweetness; 


AUTUMXAL    ODE.  289     - 

The    throne    that    shakes    not     is    the     Spirit's 

right ; 

The   heart  and   hope  of  Man   are   infinite  ; 
Heaven   is   his  home,   and,    exiled   here   on   earth, 
Completion  most  betrays   the  incompleteness! 


XII. 


Heaven  is  his  home. — But  hark !   the  breeze  increases  : 

The   sunset  forests,   catching  sudden  fire, 

Flash,   swell,   and   sing,   a  million-organed   choir : 
Roofing  the  West,   rich    clouds   in  glittering  fleeces 
O'er-arch  ethereal  spaces   and  divine 
Of  heaven's   clear  hyaline. 
No  dream  is   this  !     Beyond  that  radiance  golden 

God's    Sons    I    see,  His  armies  bright  and  strong, 
The    ensanguined     Martyrs    here    with    palms    high 
holden, 

The   Virgins   there,   a  lily-lifting  throng ! 
The    Splendors   nearer  draw.     In   choral  blending 

The   Prophets'   and  the   Apostles'  chaunt  I    hear; 
I    see   the   City  of  the   Just  descending 

With  gates   of  pearl  and  diamond  bastions  sheer. 
The   walls   are   agate   and   chalcedony : 

On  jacinth   street  and  jasper   parapet 
The   unwaning  light   is    light   of  Deity, 

Not  beam   of  lessening   moon  or  suns   that  set. 
That   undeciduous   forestry  of  spires 

Lets  fall  no  leaf!    those  lights   can   never  range  : 
Saintly   fruitions   and  divine   desires 

Are  blended  there  in   rapture  without   change. 


290  AUTUMNAL   ODE. 

— Man  was  not  made  for  things   that  leave   us, 

For  that  which  goeth  and  returneth, 
For  hopes  that  lift  us  yet  deceive   us, 

For  love   that  wears   a   smile   yet   mourneth ; 
Not  for  fresh  forests  from  the  dead  leaves  spring 
ing, 

The   cyclic   re-creation  which,  at  best, 
Yields   us — betrayal   still   to  promise   clinging — 

But  tremulous    shadows   of  the   realm   of  rest: 
For  things   immortal   Man   was   made, 

God's   Image,  latest  from   His   hand, 

Co-heir  with  Him,  Who  in  Man's  flesh  arrayed 

Holds  o'er  the  worlds  the  Heavenly- Human  wand  : 
His  portion   this — sublime 

To   stand  where  access  none  hath   Space   or  Time, 
Above  the  starry  host,   the   Cherub   band, 
To  stand — to  advance — and  after  all  to  stand ! 


Jirtucatetr 

TO 

THE  COUNT  DE   MONTALEMBERT, 


URBS  ROMA.  203 

URBS  ROMA. 
ST.  PETER'S  BY  MOONLIGHT. 

Low  hung  the   moon  when   first    I  stood  in  Rome  : 
Midway  she  seemed  attracted  from  her  sphere, 
On  those  twin  Fountains  shining  broad  and  clear 
Whose  floods,  not  mindless  of  their  mountain  home, 
Rise  there  in  clouds  of  rainbow  mist  and  foam. 
That  hour  fulfilled  the  dream  of  many  a  year  : 
Through  that  thin  mist,  with  joy  akin  to   fear, 
The  steps  I  saw,  the  pillars,  last  the  dome. 
A  spiritual  Empire  there  embodied  stood  : 
The  Roman  Church  there  met  me  face  to  face : 
Ages,  sealed  up,  of  evil  and  of  good 
Slept  in  that  circling  colonnade's  embrace. 
Alone  I  stood,  a  stranger  and  alone, 
Changed  by  that  stony  miracle  to  stone. 

PONTIFIC   MASS    IN  THE   SISTINE  CHAPEL. 

FORTH  from  their  latticed  and  mysterious  cells 
The  harmonies  are  spreading,  onward  rolled: 
Ere  long,  by  counter  tides  met  and  controlled, 
Midway  more  high  the  gathering  tumult  swells. 
It  sinks — a  breeze  the  incense  cloud  dispels  : — 
Once  more  Sibylline  forms,  and  Prophets  stoled 
Look  down,  supreme  of  Art's  high  miracles, 
Upon  the  Church  terrene.     Once  more,  behold, 
With  what  an  awful  majesty  of  mien 


294  UR£S  ROMA. 

The  Kingly  Priest,  his  holy  precincts  rounding, 
Tramples  the  marbles  of  the  sacred  scene  : — 
The  altar  now  he  nears,  and  now  the  throne  ; 
As  though  the  Law  were  folded  in  his  zone, 
And  all  the  Prophets  in  his  skirts  were  sounding. 


THE   PILLAR   OF   TRAJAN. 

DEGRADING  Art's  augustest  minist'rings, 

Yon  Pillar  soars,  with   sculptured  forms  embost, 

Whose  grace  at  that  ambitious  height  is  lost : 

Lo  !    as  the  stony  serpent  twines  its  rings 

Priests,  coursers,  heralds,  warriors,  slaves,  and  kings, 

Mingle,  a  tortuous  mass  confused   and  crost ; 

While  Art,  least  honored  here  where  flattered  most, 

Deplores  in  vain  her  prostituted  springs, 

By  a  fallen  Angel  at  their  source  ill-stirred; 

Unholy — thence  unhealing  ! — What  is  aid, 

Vouchsafed,  upon  conditions  that  degrade, 

To  one  who  her  allegiance  hath  transferred  ? — 

O  Attic  Art  brought  low,  that  here  dost  stand 

Full-fed,   but  hooded,   on  a  tyrant's   hand  ! 


THE   ARCH    OF   TITUS. 

I   STOOD   beneath   the   Arch   of  Titus  long; 

On    Hebrew   forms    there   sculptured  long  I    pored  ; 

Till   fancy,  by   a   distant   clarion    stung, 

Woke  :  and  methought  there  moved  that  arch  toward 


URBS  ROMA.  295 

A  Roman  Triumph.     Lance   and   helm  and   sword 
Glittered ;     white    coursers    tramped,    and    trumpets 

rung : 

Last  came,  car-borne  a  captive  horde  among, 
The  laurelled  Boast  of  Rome — her  destined  Lord. 
As  though  by  wings  of  unseen  eagles  fanned 
The  Conqueror's  cheek,  when  first  that  Arch  he  saw, 
Burned  with  the  flush  he  strove  in  vain  to  quell — 
Titus  !  a  loftier  arch  than  thine  hath  spanned 
Rome  and  the  world  with   empery  and  law  ; — • 
Thereof  each  stone  was  hewn  from  Israel ! 


THE  CAMPAGNA  SEEN  FROM  ST.  JOHN  LATERAN. 

WAS  it  the  trampling  of  triumphant  hosts 
That  levelled  thus  yon  plain,  sea-like  and  hoary ; 
Armies  from  Rome  sent  forth  to  distant  coasts, 
And  back  returning  clad  with  spoils   of  glory  ? 
Around  it  loom   cape,   ridge,   and  promontory : 
Above   it   sunset   shadows  fleet  like   ghosts, 
Fast-borne  o'er  keep  and  tomb,  whose  ancient  boasts, 
By   Time   confuted,  name   have   none   in   story. 
Fit  seat  for   Rome  !  for  here   is  ample   space, 
Which  greatness   chiefly  needs — severed  alone 
By   yonder   aqueducts,    with   queenly   grace 
That   sweep   in   curves    concentric   ever   on, 
(Bridging  a  world   subjected   as   a   chart) 
To  that  great   City,   head  of  earth,   and  heart. 


2  9^  URBS  ROMA. 

BIRDS    IN    THE    BATHS    OF    DIOCLETIAN. 

EGERIAN   warbler  !    unseen   rhapsodist ! 

Whose   carols    antedate    the    Roman    spring ; 

Who,  while  the  old  grey  walls,    thy  playmates,   ring, 

Dost   evermore  on  one   deep   strain  insist ; 

Flinging  thy  bell-notes  through  the  sunset  mist ! 

Around  thy  haunt  rich  weeds  and  wall-flowers  swing 

As  in  a  breeze,   the  twilight  crimsoning 

That  sucks  from  them   aerial  amethyst — 

O  for  a   Sibyl's   insight  to  reveal 

That  lore  thou  sing'st  of!     Shall  I  guess  it?  nay! 

Enough  to  hear  thy  strain — enough  to   feel 

O'er  all   the  extended  soul  the  freshness  steal 

Of  those  ambrosial  honeydews  that  weigh 

Down   with  sweet  force  the  azure  lids  of  day. 


THE   "MISERERE"   IN   THE  SISTINE   CHAPEL. 


FROM  sadness  on   to  sadness,  woe  to  woe, 
Searching  all  depths  of  grief  ineffable, 
Those  sighs  of  the    Forsaken   sink  and   swell, 
And  to  a  piercing  shrillness,  gathering,  grow. 
Now  one   by  one,  commingling  now,    they  flow 
Now  in  the  dark  they  die,  a  piteous  knell, 
Lorn  as  the  wail  of  exiled  Israel, 
Or  Hagar  weeping  o'er  her  outcast.     No — 
Never  hath  loss  external  forced  such  sighs ! 
O  ye  with  secret  sins  that  inly  bleed, 


URBS   ROMA.  297 

And  drift  from  God,  search   out,  if  ye  are  wise, 
Your  unrepented  infelicities  : 
And  pray,  whate'er  the  punishment  decreed, 
It  prove  not   exile  from  your  Maker's  eyes  ! 


THE    "  MISERERE "    IN     THE    SISTINE    CHAPEL. 
II. 

THOSE  sounds  expiring  on  mine  ear,  mine  eye 
Was  by  their  visual   reflex   strangely  spelled  : 
A  vision  of  the   Angels  who  rebelled 
Still  hung  before  me,    through  the  yielding  sky 
Sinking  on  plumes  outstretched  imploringly. 
Their  Tempter's   hopes  and  theirs  for  ever  quelled, 
They  sank,  with  hands   upon  their  eyes  close-held, 
And  longed,  methought,  for  death,  yet  could  not  die. 
Down,   ever  down,    a  mournful   pageant  streaming 
Like   Souls  in  whom  Despair  hath   slain  Endeavor, 
Inwoven  choirs  to  ruin  blindly  tending, 
They  sank.     I  wept  as  one  who  weeps  while  dream 
ing? 

To  see  them,  host  on  host,  by  doom  descending 
Down  the  dim  gulfs,  for  ever  and  for  ever. 


A     ROMAN     LEGEND. — VALERIAN    AND     CECILIA. 

THE  eyes  that  loved  me  were  upon  me  staying  : 
The  eyes  that  loved  me,  and  the  eyes  that    won. 
Guardian  or  guide  celestial  saw  I  none ; 
But  the  unseen   chaplets  on  her   temples  weighing 


298  URBS  ROMA. 

Breathed     heaven    around  !      A    golden    smile    was 

playing 

O'er  the    full  lips.     Meekly  her  countenance  shone, 
And  beamed,  a  lamp  of  peace,  'mid  shadows   dun — 
Round  her   lit  form  the  ambrosial  locks   were   sway 
ing. 

Fair  Spirit  !     Angel  of  delight  new-born, 
And   love,    unchanging  love  and  infinite, 
Aurorean  planet  of  the  eternal  morn  ! 
That   gaze  I  caught ;   and,  standing  in   that  light, 
My  soul,  from  Pagan  bonds  released  by  thee, 
Upsoared,  and  hailed  its   immortality. 


ROME    AT    NOON. 

THE   streets  lie  silent,  in  the  shadows  deep 
Of  obelisk  and  statue  o'er  them  thrown  ; 
A  people  slumbers  in  its  noonday  sleep ; 
No  sound  save  yon  cicala's  lazy  drone. 
Sunshine  intense   each  glittering  dome   doth  steep, 
Each    Lombard    tower,    each    convent    court    grass- 
grown, 

Fires  the   tall  arch,  and  heats  each  column  prone, 
My  prop    in  turn  as  slowly  on   I  creep. 
Methinks  such  stillness  reigned   that  hour  in  Rome 
Three  centuries  since,  when  through  the  fiery  air 
Uprose,  sole-heard,  the  saintly  Pontiff's  prayer — 
Rose,   and   a  slumbering  world  escaped  its   doom. 
Vanquished   that  hour  beside  Lepanto's  shore, 
Satan  like  lightning  fell,  thenceforth  to  rise  no  more. 


17RBS  ROMA,  299 

CHRISTMAS    EVE,    l86o. 

THIS   night,  O   earth,   a   Saviour  germinate: 
Drop  down,  ye  heavens,  your  sweetness  from  above  ! 
This  night  is   closed  the  iron  book  of  fate  ; 
Open'd   this   night   the  book   of  endless   love. 
On   from   the   Orient  like   a  breeze   doth   move 
The  joy  world-wide — a  breeze   that  wafts   a  freight 
Of  vernal  song  o'er  lands   benumb'd   but  late, 
Rivers  ice-bound,   and  winter-wasted  grove. 
Onward   from   Bethlehem,   onward   o'er   the   yEgean, 
Travels   like   night   the   starry    Feast   Divine. 
All   realms   rejoice  ;   but  loudest  swells   the   pean 
From   that   white    Basilic   on   the    Esquiline 
Beneath   whose   roof  in   sunlike   radiance   clad 
The  suffering   Father   stands — to-night  not   sad. 


THE    CATACOMBS. 

WHOEVER  seeks  for  penitential   days, 
And  vows   that  fitly   on   such   days   attend, 
A   region  apt,   his  wanderings   here   may  end : 
These   caverns,  winding  in  sepulchral   maze, 
Are   stronger  than   the   desert's  loneliest  ways 
Thoughts    meek    and    sad    with    lofty    thoughts     to 

blend  :— 

Descend,   great   Pontiff!    Sovran   Priest,   descend  ! 
Let  all  the   Princes   of  the    Church   upraise 
With   annual   rites   their  sceptred  hands   to   God  ! 
Kings  of  the  nations,  purpling  those  strange  glooms 


3°°  URBS  ROMA. 

With   robes   imperial,  on  your  faces   sink ; — 
Sink,   and   be   saved,   in   those   dread   catacombs ! 
And   deeply   of  the   inspiring   incense    drink 
That  rises   from   the   dust   the  Martyrs   trod! 


THE    APPIAN    WAY. 

AWE-STRUCK   I   gazed   upon   that  rock-paved   way, 

The   Appian    Road ;   marmorean  witness   still 

Of  Rome's    resistless    stride   and   fateful   Will, 

Which    mocked   at   limits,    opening   out   for   aye 

Divergent    paths    to    one   imperial   sway. 

The    Nations   verily   their  parts  fulfil ; 

And    War    must   plough  the   fields   which    Law   shall 

till; 

Therefore    Rome   triumphed   till  the   appointed   day. 
Then    from    the    Catacombs,   like  waves,   up-burst 
The    Host   of  God,    and   scaled,  as   in   an   hour, 
O'er    all   the   earth   the  mountain   seats   of  Power. 
Gladly    in    that   baptismal   flood   immersed 
The    old    Empire   died  to   live.     Once   more   on  high 
It  sits ;    now  clothed  with   immortality ! 


ON     THE    CROSS     IN     THE     INTERIOR     OF     THE     COLI 
SEUM. 

FAR    from   his   friends,   his   country,   and    his    home, 
Perhaps    on    that   small  spot — ay  doubtless   there — 
Some    Christian    Martyr  fell,   in  one   wide   stare 
Concentrating   the  gaze   intense  of  Rome. 


URBS  ROMA.  3°  I 

Now  central  stands  beneath   heaven's   mighty   dome 
The   Cross   which    marks   that    spot !     Stranger,   be 
ware  ! 

The  Orb  of  Earth  was  framed   that  Cross  to   bear : 
And  when,   slow-tottering  round  an   Empire's   tomb, 
These  walls,   within   whose  grey   encincture   vast 
That    Cross   for   ages   stands    as    in   a   shrine, 
Around   their  awful   guest   shall  melt  at  last, 
Each   stone   descending  to   the   earth,   shall   say, 
"  Empires  and   Nations  crumble :    but   that   Sign 
Pre-eminent  shall   stand,   and   stand   for  aye  !" 


THE    FOUNTAIN    OF    EGERIA. 

FOR  this   cold   fount   the    Sabine  Saint   and  Sage 
Wooed    by    high    thought    forsook    both    camp    and 

throne : 

Here   on   his  country's   weal   he   mused   alone, 
Calm-visaged  as   the  planetary  page  : 
That    murmuring    spring    had    power    his    cares     to 

assuage : 

Here — dim  elsewhere  as  noontide  moon  fleece-strewn — 
In   this  religious  gloom   distinctly  shewn, 
Egeria   shared  his  kingly  hermitage. 
O   pure   as  Arethusa,   and   more   high  ! 
Cleaving  rough   seas  she   spurned  irreverent  love  ; 
Thine,    Roman   Nymph,   a   tenderer  sanctity, 
Bending   like   air   that   strong  white   head   above 
To   breathe  just  counsel   in   a   monarch's   ear — 
Those    kings   alone   are   blest  to  whom  thy  voice  is 

dear! 


302  URBS  ROMA. 

THE   MONASTERY  OF    SAN   GREGORIO  ON    THE   CCELIAN 
HILL. 

As   when,   descending   from   that   God-led  bark 

At   last   on   Ararat's   broad   summit  staged, 

A   ruined  earth's   sad   heir,   yet  undismayed, 

Forth   paced,   with   all  his   sons,   the   Patriarch  ; — 

As   when   above  that  world   of  waters   stark 

He   stood,   while    down    they   rushed,    and    standing 

prayed : — 
As    when    he    followed,    through     some     wave-worn 

glade 

With   over-arching  horns   of  granite   dark, 
Advancing  without  fear  he  knew   not  where — 
So   with   his   monks  went  forth   from   yonder  pile 
Augustine   missioned   to    that   northern   isle  ; 
Yon    Crelian    Hill   descended   thus,   footbare  ; 
Thus   sought   a  wilderness   of  hearts   all   stone ; 
Thus   found  a  land   of  death,   and    made    that    land 

his   own. 


THE   GRAVES    OF    TYRCONNEL   AND    TYRONE    ON    SAN 
PIETRO,    IN    MONTORIO. 

WITHIN  Saint   Peter's   fane,   that  kindly  hearth 
Where  exiles  crowned  their  earthly  loads  down  cast, 
The   Scottish  Kings   repose,   their  wanderings    past, 
In   death   more   royal  thrice   than   in  their  birth. 
Near  them,   within   a  church   of  narrower  girth 
But   with  dilated     memories  yet  more  vast, 


URBS   ROMA.  303 

Sad    Ulster's    Princes   find   their  rest  at  last, 
Their  home   the   holiest   spot,   save   one,   on   earth. 
This   is   that   Mount  which  saw   Saint   Peter   die  ! 
Where    stands    yon    dome    stood    once    that    Cross 

reversed  : 

From   this   dread   Hill,   a   Western   Calvary, 
The   Empire   and  that   Synagogue   accurst 
Clashed   two   ensanguined  hands — like    Cain — in  one. 
Sleep  where  the  Apostle  slept,  Tyrconnel  and  Tyrone  ! 


SONNET. 

THE     FRANCISCAN     CONVENT     OF     THE    ARA     COZLI    ON    THE 
CAPITOL. 

HERE   where   of  old  the    Roman  Senate   sate 

Where,    thundering   from   his  Capitolian  throne, 

Co-regent  of  the   Universal   State, 

Jove  o'er  that   Roman   sceptre   laid   his   own, 

To-day  the   sons   of  Francis,  humbly   elate, 

Keep  their  aerial   nest  and   vigil   lone  ; 

Here,  like  that  bird  which  "sings   at  heaven's  gate," 

Earliest  their   Christmas    Matin   Hymns   entone. 

Far  down,   beneath,   the  Benedictines  lie, 

Of  Orders   first ; — far  down   whose    Science   soared 

Highest  ;* — far   clown    the    all-conquering    Company f 

That  raised  o'er  earth  the  chalice  and  the  sword : — 

But   here  the   meek   Franciscans  reign   on   high 

That   Christ   may  be  in  lowliness  adored. 

*  The    Dominican    Order.  t  The    Company   of  Jesus. 


3°4  URBS  ROMA. 

THE   CONVENT   OF   ST.    BUONAVENTURA. 

EMBALMED   airs,  so   pure,  so   fresh,   so  bland !. 
Heart-soothing   love-note   of  the   dove   unseen  ! 
Can   such   be   here  ?     Beyond   that  leafy  screen 
Thy  ruins,  dread   Caesarian   Palace,   stand  ! 
There,   full   in  face  thy  cliff-like  walls   expand, 
Man-slaying   Coliseum !    Tragic   scene, 
Where,   lion-girt,   the    Martyr   stood   serene, 
And  triumphed  that  strong  Faith  an  Empire  banned. 
O    Rome,  thou  mystic  name  for  Strength,  that  hour 
Thou  knew'st  not   Strength   is   none   on   earth    save 

Love  !  * 

They  knew  it,  they  that,  met  in  yonder  bower, 
Of  Rome  spake  not,  but  that  fair  realm  above 
Where  those  who  loved  and  suffered,  love  and 

reign- 
Saint   Francis,   and   that  warrior   Saint  of  Spain. 


SANTA   MARIA    MAGGIORE. 

As    stand   the    Hills   around   Jerusalem, 
As  stands    the    Lord  of  Hosts    around    His    own, 
So   stand  beside  the  gates   and   walls   that   hem 
The    Christian    Salem   with    their   stony   zone 
The   Seven  Basilicas :    so   stands   their  gem, 
Saint  Mary's   snowy  fane,   thy  tribute   throne, 

*  "Roma,"  which  signifies   Strength,  is   "Amor,"    with   the   letters 
placed  in  an  inverted   order. 


URBS  ROMA.  3° 5 

O  Esquiline,  in  legends   old   snow-strewn, 
Upreared   to   her  that  wears   earth's  diadem  ! 
Reign,  chaste  and  meek  ;  reign,    blissful  and  benign ; 
Reign,   second  Eve,  that  mortal  taint  hadst  none  : 
Reign,  Maid  and  Mother  of  the  Child  Divine, 
For    His,    not  thine,   the  kingdom  thou  hast  won  : 
Reign   in    thy   Rome — thy   Son's    augustest   shrine — 
And  bind  her  ever  closer  to   that   Son ! 


THE   INTERIOR   OF   ST.    PETER'S. 

REBELLIOUS   Nations!     This   shall  come   to  pass — 

From   yonder   altar   to    their   kingdoms    down 

The  Kings  once  more  shall  pace,  sceptre  and  crown 

On   that  dim  sea  of  marble   and   of  brass, 

Showering,  as   Angels   on   the   sea   of  glass, 

Their   amaranthine   wreaths !      All   Powers  shall  own 

A   spiritual   homage   to   St.    Peter's    throne ; 

Draw  thence  once  more  their  temporal   peace.  Alas  ! 

What    now    are    Kings  ?      A    thousand    years    each 

Nation 

Claimed   to   stand   subject   to  a   Father's    eye  ! 
All    realms    invoked   the    Apostle's    arbitration, 
An   unseen   world   their   strength    and   unity : — 
Proud    Kings  !    proud   realms  !    your   victory  is   your 

loss! 
That   rule   is   brief  which   rests   not  on   the    Cross. 


3^  URBS  ROMA. 

THE   MONUMENT   OF   ST.    LEO   THE   GREAT. 

(ATTILA  BEFORE  ROME.) 

LEAGUERING  doomed  walls — as  when  on  some  wild 

coast 

The    high-ridged  deep,   storm-driven   from  afar, 
Makes    way   in   thunder,    whitening   reef  and  bar — 
Leaguering  great   Rome,   the   old  world's  shame  yet 

boast, 

Comes    up   at  last   the   dread   Barbarian  host : 
To   meet   them,    placid   as   that   ocean  star 
Whose    rising   quells   the   elemental   war, 
Forth  moves,    his   hands   upon   his   bosom   crossed, 
That    Puissance   new,   the    Church's   mitred    Sire ! 
His   eye   is   fixed :  as   reeds   before   the   breeze 
Bending,  that  host  sinks  down  on  suppliant  knees  : 
The    standards   droop :    the   trumpet  blasts   expire : 
The  "  Scourge  of  God  "  in  heaven  his  sentence  sees  ; 
The   embattled   Gentiles   tremble,  and  retire. 


THE    MONUMENTS    OF    QUEEN    CHRISTINA   OF    SWEDEN 
AND    THE    COUNTESS    MATILDA. 

THIS   is   the   crownless    Queen   of  royal   heart ; 
The   Christian   Queen    that,    vowed    to    Christ,    laid 

down 

The   infected   sceptre   and  the   apostate  crown, 
Zealous   with    that  dear    Lord   to   bear   her   part 
Whom   the   blind   North    was    "adverse   to   desert." 


URBS  ROMA.  307 

To  her   what   thing  was    Fortune's   smile  or  frown, 
Fortune  that  stoles  the  knave,  and  thrones  the  clown, 
Whose  Church  the  palace  is,  whose  Realm  the  mart  ? 
Christina,  and   Matilda!     Here    they  lie! 
One    spurned   a   kingdom :    dying,    one    endowed 
The   meek  one   with   the   trappings    of  the   proud, 
And  fixed  her  realm,   a  glittering  gem,    on   high, 
Star  of  that  temporal   crown   by   Peter   worn — 
Sleep  well,   brave   sisters,   till   the   eternal   morn ! 


SIR   WALTER    SCOTT    AT   THE   TOMB    OF   THE   STUARTS. 


THE  wild  deer,   when  the  shaft   is  in  his   side, 
Seeks   his   first  lair  beneath  the  forest   hoar  : 
Drawn  back  from  reboant  deeps,   the  exhausted  tide 
Breathes  his   last   sob   on   the   forsaken  shore : 
When   on   the   village   green   the  sports    have  died 
The   child   stands  knocking  at  his  Grandsire's  door  : 
So   stands   by   this    far   tomb    of  Scotland's    pride 
Her  greatest  son,  death-doomed,  and  travel-sore. 
So  stand,  last  Singer  of  the   Heroic  Age  ! 
Dead  are  those  years  so   loyal,  brave,  and   high, 
That   whilome   blazoned    History's    Missal   page, 
And   ring  for   aye  through   thy  glad   minstrelsy : 
Old   Pilgrim,  ended   is    thy  pilgrimag 
This    hour.      The   shadows    round   thee    close :    now 
die! 


3°8  CRBS  ROMA. 

II. 

StafF-propt  he   stands :    and  all  his    Country's   past 
Streams   back  before   his   sadly-kindling   eye  ; 
King   after  King,  as   cloud   on   cloud,  when  fast 
The   storm-rack   rushes   through   the   autumnal   sky : 
Aughrim   to   Flodden   answers !    on   the   blast 
Now    Mary's,   now   the    Bruce's    standards    fly : 
Those    earliest,    Irish,    kings    he    sees    at   last 
Cross-crowned   on   old    lona's   shores   who   lie. 
— Thus  as   he   gazed,  a  voice   from  vault   and  shrine 
Whispered   around   him — and    from    Peter's   Tomb — 
"  Not   one   alone,   but  every   Royal   Line 
To  my  strong  Gates,  as  thou  to  these,    shall   come, 
Heart-pierced    at    last ;    for    mine    they    were ;     and 

mine 
The    Cradles   and   the    Graves   of  Christendom." 


SAINT    PETER. 


ROCK   of  the   Rock !     As   He,   the   Light  of  Light, 

Shews   forth    His   Father's    Glory   evermore, 

So    shew'st  thou   forth    the    Son's   unshaken  Might, 

Throned   in   thy  unity   on   every  shore. 

On  thee  His  Church  He  built :    and  though,  all  night, 

Tempests    of  leaguering   demons    round  it   roar, 

The   Gates   of  Hell   prevail  not ;   and  the  Right 

Shines  lordliest  through  the  breaking  clouds  of  war. 


URBS   ROMA.  309 

Prince   of  the   Apostles  !     Onward   like  a   wheel 
The  world   rolls   blindly,    and    the    nations   pant ; 
But   God   upon    His    Church   hath   set  His    seal, 
Fusing   His    own    eternal   adamant 
Through  all   its    bastions   and    its   towers   in   thee — 
Luminous   it   stands    through  thy   solidity. 


SAIXT    PETER. 


IT. 


First  of  the    Faith    he   made   confession   sole, 
Taught  by   the   Father,   not  by  flesh   and   blood : 
Then    He    the   parts  Who  strengthens  by  the  whole 
Bade   him  make   strong  his    Brethren,    and  the  rod 
Gave  him   of  empire.     By   that    Syrian    flood 
Lastly,   a   Love  thrice-challenged   he    confessed 
That   singly   passed  the   love   of  all   the   rest, 
And   straightway   to   his    hand  ^Incarnate    God, 
Lifting   that   Hand   which  made  the  worlds,"  accorded 
Rule   of  His    Flock   world-wide  both    fair   and  pure : 
The   mystery   of  His   Might    in    One    He    hoarded 
That   all,    made   one,    might  live   in   one    secure. 
In   Christ  the   Race   redeemed  is  one  : — in  thee 
Forth   stands,   a   Sacrament,    that    Unity. 


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THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


I  Nicholas  M.  Williams, 
CATHOLIC  BOOKSELLER, 


